


Faithfully Yours

by Curlsandcollege



Series: Their New Faerghus Repression [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bisexual Sylvain Jose Gautier, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Longing, Marriage Proposal, Pining, Post-Canon, Relationship Defining Conversations, Resolving Issues, Sex, bisexual dorothea arnault, brief implied child abuse, horny letters, sneaky peace with sreng, the gautier parents are awful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26046568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curlsandcollege/pseuds/Curlsandcollege
Summary: "If you ever doubt if I am being faithful to you, read the above horny paragraph. That is not the writing of a man recently bedded."Sylvain and Dorothea write letters from across the continent- there's nude portraits, pining, opera critique, references to patricide, and maybe a future where they resolve their issues and get married.If only it were that simple. If only they didn't have families or commitments or twenty years of baggage to work through.Then Dorothea might finally say yes.After “Plenty Wooed”
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Their New Faerghus Repression [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880089
Comments: 43
Kudos: 78
Collections: That Old Faerghus Repression





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dorothea says no to Sylvain ten times. But eventually she says yes. 
> 
> She just has to decide if she wants to first. 
> 
> This takes place in the same world as Being Fair and Plenty Wooed. Not mandatory reading, but fun background.

“You’re going to write to me Sylvain. No more three month breaks between letters”

“Every day Dorothea. Every single day. Pointless things. What I ate. What I wore. What I thought about when I jerked off. What spooked my horse. Everything”  
  
“Just be honest. The point is to make me miss you, not to annoy me with drivel.” 

“Ahhh but if I annoy you enough, will you agree to marry me so I don’t have to write you anymore?”  
  
“If you annoy me enough I’ll stop responding.” 

“You wouldn’t”  
  
“I might” 

“I’d die” 

“Don’t die” 

“Then you have to write me too” 

* * *

  
  


Sylvain’s first letter arrived three weeks after she returned to Enbarr.  
  
Dorothea dragged herself home after a ten out of twelve rehearsal at the Opera house, followed by a few hours of bedtime routine at the orphanage. In her exhaustion she had forgotten every lesson she had been taught about posture and gait, how to float rather than walk. She looked forward to scarfing down some hard bread and cheese and passing out face first in her bed with her shoes still on. Yes, that seemed like a lovely idea.   
  
Yet when she saw the thick envelope stamped with a Gautier seal (so _official)_ she was suddenly wide awake. 

* * *

  
  


> My Dearest Dorothea, 
> 
> I am worried that by now you’ve forgotten my face, so I have attached a sketch. Unfortunately I have both the expensive education and impeccable taste to know that I am probably the worst artist in Fodlan, so you will simply have to use your imagination. I swear to you I am more handsome than depicted both here and in your memory. What were your words? Not terrible to look at? 
> 
> I am writing to remind you that I will win you over. My thoughts are of nothing but you.  
>    
>  Okay... possibly Sreng, occasionally history, my endless longing for food not prepared in Faerghus, Felix when he sends a particularly thorny letter that sticks with me for days. But you, Thea, are preeminent.  
>    
>  And now I know you are thinking, “Sex is notably absent from that list Sylvain” but I draw your eyes back to my above point. I think of you most of all. 
> 
> I was given the joy and privilege of sleeping in my own bed for a whole week before being shipped back into the mountains. Fighting slows down when there’s a blizzard so I find myself asking the goddess for snow. I shouldn’t have told you that… 
> 
> Everything is warm and balmy in Gautier. It’s downright tropical. Crazy weather patterns you know. Our beaches are famous. You’ll love it. We’ll go skinny dipping and it definitely won’t cause any extremities to freeze off.  
>    
>  Being trapped in the house reminded me that I genuinely prefer fighting to dealing with my parents. War with Sreng is endless, but feels winnable. War with the Gautiers is pointless, and there are no winners.  
>    
> 
> 
> My mother burst into tears at the sight of me after my father and I returned from Felix’s wedding. 
> 
> When I was sixteen my leg was broken so badly that I couldn't walk for nearly a year. I think I told you about that before, why I attended the officers academy at the geriatric age of nineteen. She did not cry once, not even privately. Realizing that I attended a wedding with a full beard? Waterworks. A wedding, I will remind you, that she refused to attend. Because Annette’s _uncle_ supported the empire. 
> 
>   
>  Not to insult your prowess, but _she_ is the finest actress in Fodlan. 
> 
> She told me I look like a degenerate.  
>    
>  I replied that I am a degenerate.  
>    
>  War is hell, my parents are far worse. ~~I’ll be happier when they’re dead.~~
> 
>   
>  Which I shouldn’t be telling you, given that I’m trying to convince you to marry me and all.
> 
> Let’s try this instead:
> 
> My mother is a warm, caring woman who will embrace you with open arms as the daughter she never had and my father a forthright, understanding man who sees human life as valuable for its own sake and does not get satisfaction from manipulating people like game pieces.  
>    
>  I’m a liar. You know this. I think you like me anyway.  
>    
>  I do occasionally, in my fantasies, entertain how much good you could do for Gautier. I want it to be a place where war is not the only industry, and I could think of no one more well suited to leading that charge. 
> 
> I also entertain you in other fantasies but I’ll leave those to your imagination. 
> 
> Truthfully I should scrap this pointless, angry letter, write to you only of love with pretty words and wax poetic on how much I miss you. But you want me to be _honest_ with you and I’m not trying to _trick_ you into marriage, only convince you I’m worth all the misery that I come with.  
>    
>  I also happen to be fantastically wealthy and have an enormous cock. Sketch attached of course. In case you’ve forgotten. Please tell me you haven’t forgotten.  
>    
>  I do miss you. Truly. I miss your laugh and your jokes and your insults. I miss your smile. I miss your hair and your breasts and how you wrap yourself around me and put your icicle feet on my ass when you get into bed. I miss how you roll your hips and pull my hair like you’re mad at me but only when you’re _really_ happy with me. And your lips… I could write operas about your lips. I can’t sing so they will be terrible, but I would write them anyway. Old Faerghus style, five acts with a dinner break. None of this tight Adrestian three act structure. Though I’ll have a lot of fun with your tight Adrestian three act structure during the Faerghus style dinner break, if you catch my meaning.  
>    
>  I digress. If you ever doubt if I am being faithful to you, read the above horny paragraph. That is not the writing of a man recently bedded. 
> 
> I miss how you make me want to be better. Dorothea you make me not want to be myself anymore. I don’t deserve you. I hope you want me anyway. 
> 
> I hope you miss me.  
>    
>  I don’t want you to be sad but I hope you would be happier with me in your life. I know I am happiest when I am with you. 
> 
> I am sending this immediately before heading back to Sreng for a while. Please write me. You’ve chided me for fighting like I don’t value my life. Imagine how incredible I’ll be knowing I will have a letter waiting for me from Dorothea when I return, and will only be able to read it if I live. 
> 
>   
>  Tell me about Mittlefrank and how your Loog opera is developing. Did you end up adding in Pan? I know Ashe sent you home from Fradalrius with a thousand reading recommendations. I spied on your notebook with the costume designs, I know opera is not subtle and Loog was a Bladdiyd and all but an _eyepatch?_ Really?  
>    
>  If you’re going the propaganda route, may I suggest Pan with some mint green hair? Just a thought. 
> 
> Speaking of Ashe he is apparently planning on visiting Brigid this summer and will be taking a boat from Enbarr so if he’s too shy to bring it up make _sure_ you invite him to attend. He’s never seen an opera before. I bet he’ll cry. It’ll be great. 
> 
> All of this is to say please write me. I will come to Enbarr when my father decides I’ve defeated enough Sreng battalions to grant me leave. If he refuses I will simply abandon my title and move to Enbarr with you and you will have to cast me in the Opera despite my terrible singing for I have few other talents outside of fighting and fucking.  
>    
>  I was a fool not to stay with you after the war. But decisions have been made and I guess we have to live with them. 
> 
> Decide on me please. I love you. I’ll wait for you forever, but I hope it’s not forever. 
> 
> Faithfully Yours,
> 
> Sylvain Jose Gauiter 

* * *

  
The contrast between Sylvain’s truly impeccable penmanship and the embarrassingly crude nude self portrait he included made Dorothea laugh so hard she cried.  
  
Part of her wanted to keep the doodle locked away, as a secret just for her that she could look at when she needed something to smile at for a moment. The other part of her knew that Ferdinand was planning on visiting for tea within the week and she _needed_ to see his reaction to it.  
  
It ended up tacked to the board she kept above her writing desk. 

Dorothea read the letter three more times before she penned her reply. He had written on for endless pages, rambling about his love and his frustrations. She had asked for honesty, and had received a thick packet of it by post. 

He always sounded so formal in his writing, as if he needed to elevate his voice to woo her. Dorothea had trouble matching his tone in writing. Sure she could _compose_. She might outmatch him in poetry. But her penmanship was admittedly poor and her hand cramped up if she wrote for too long. She endeavored to be brief. Still loving and honest. But she would not waste parchment on anger. 

Sylvain fancied himself a romantic but struggled with being genuine, either dumping far too much information, or deflecting entirely. She didn’t know a lot of romantics who depicted themselves with cocks the size of their body, but there was far too much emotion in Sylvain’s letter for it not to have something dumb for him to deflect focus on. 

Dorothea knew a thing or two about deflection. Some gross part of her treasured his pain, found she liked him best when he would actually admit he had feelings. He wanted her to know the real him, but he hid himself under jokes and flirtation and cynicism. He so rarely admitted to something as pedestrian as emotion. Proclamations of love? Sure. Anger? Only wrapped in jest. Loneliness, fear? Never. 

  
And his _leg._

She remembered the story about his leg. How could she have possibly forgotten? It had only come up once, late at night during the war when they were so tired from a day’s march to Fhirdiad but Sylvain was proud of how incredibly far Dimitri had come and would not shut up about it. She commented that he sounded like a proud big brother. He said he thought of himself as such. Then she asked if he waited to attend Garreg Mach so he could be there with his friends. She had always wondered why he was so much older than the typical Faerghus student. 

It was the wrong thing to say. 

He had mentioned his injury, and that he was bedridden for a year and it wasn’t until he was 19 that he was strong enough to even try to attend. _I’ve never worked so hard in my life and I don’t intend to work that hard ever again._

Apparently, his parents had threatened him that since _other_ parts of his body clearly worked he could get married and make a crested heir immediately to replace himself.  
  
_Married and a father. At seventeen. And there were multiple offers. Could you imagine?_

Of course, he never explained _how_ he had broken his leg. She had her guesses. 

Dorothea knew that there were no winners in the terrible childhood cup. She had been starving, an orphan, homeless. But she wouldn’t switch places with Sylvain.  
  
Yet she was considering, truly considering, moving to the place that made him. 

  
Dorothea had been the busiest she had ever been in her life since she returned to Enbarr. Trying to make art in a city that was crumbling was a challenge. Convincing the few nobles with money left to act as patrons was no small task. These were not the cute little productions she did for the orphans at Garreg Mach. 

His letter made her feel loved. It made her sad. It somehow made her want to kiss him and smack him at the exact same time.  
  
But it confirmed what she already knew. Dorothea missed Sylvain terribly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain gets a letter from Dorothea and attempts to convince his parents to send him to Enbarr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General warning for the Gautier Parents being cannon-typical incredibly shitty people

Sylvain tried not to be too despondent that there was no letter from Dorothea waiting for him when he was ordered to get to his correspondence.  
  
The order, he noted bitterly, came approximately two minutes after his arrival back from the Sreng border.  
  
“Sylvain darling, there’s an ambassador from Kleinman in so please do not attend luncheon with wet hair. Or that horrific beard. You have a pile of letters miles tall that is far more pressing than whatever your bedraggled presence would add. Bathe promptly and your father and I shall see you at dinner.” 

He was miserably tearing open a letter from Dimitri when the maid arrived with his lunch.  
  
“There’s a little something extra under your gratin” She smiled at him as she placed the tray down on his desk. 

He gave her a quizzical look, he and Margery hadn’t flirted in years, and then noticed the envelope sticking out. Margery laughed at his careless speed to grab the letter, spilling his dish and seemingly not caring one bit. “Who is trying to torture me?” He asked, ripping the letter open.  
  
“The Steward confiscated it, your mother had insisted on checking who was writing to you. We know about your… friend in Enbarr. The Margravine not devious enough to break official seals but we didn’t quite trust her with… Well… Enjoy Lord Gautier.”  
  
Sylvain occasionally got drunk with his family’s elderly Steward who had a past so checkered and scandalous that it made Sylvain seem tame. He had never been more grateful for that friendship.

* * *

> Sylvain, 
> 
> The opera goes along as well as anything in Enbarr these days… It’s in shambles but I have hope it will improve. It will have to, we open in a month. 
> 
> I did choose to include Pan in my opera, it was an excellent suggestion on Ashe’s part and it helps me flesh out the third and final act a bit more. Propaganda is a strong word for what I am doing with my costuming choices, I merely wish to connect some dots as my audience will still largely be wealthy nobles and they do tend to be so incredibly dense at times. So yes, Loog will be wearing an eyepatch in my appropriately long three act Adrestian style opera. 
> 
> We’re going to do some open park performances as well, not the whole production but some of the very best songs. I’ve told my producers they are an advertising tool. They are absolutely not advertising. I want to perform for those who will love the music but can’t afford to pay the insane prices I’m being required to charge, but you didn’t hear that from me.  
>   
> 
> 
> Your suggestion of a green haired Pan was actually quite clever, but I cast the most incredible Baritone I’ve ever heard in my life. He’s a cobbler from Duscur. Apparently a good number of Duscur refugees moved from Fhirdiad to the Empire when the war broke out… I know we’re all one country now, but citizens of Enbarr are less prejudiced against Duscur or so I am told.  
>   
> Call me a propagandist if you want, but I’m not covering up his hair. 
> 
> I’m also trying to think of what pieces I can cast him in next. He truly has the most breathtaking voice- he’s incredible. He’s going to steal the show in Loog and I say that as the Diva of the company. I’m okay with it, he deserves it.  
>   
> If it sounds like I’m in love with him, you’d be wrong. Notably, he’s married. Also I’m in love with you silly. And it’s our pianist you really have to worry about. She’s _stunning._ She’s talented and grouchy but with a soft heart. And her ass is just… Well… You’ll see what I mean when you visit. 
> 
> I am lonely without you and I think about you a great deal Sylvain. 
> 
> Your self portrait did jog my memory, and how creative to draw your cock true to size. I will not include one of my own, you’ll have to come see me to remind yourself what I look like.  
>   
> Do not say such horrible things about your life, we’ve both seen far too much death these past few years. I should not be the only thing keeping you alive, and especially not my letters since, as I’ve established, they include no nude portraits. But I will write to you, because hearing from you was the highlight of my month. Yes, including Iah (the baritone). The pianist comes close though...
> 
> You should really just disobey your father. You’re a grown man, take control of your own life. You’ve made it pretty clear you don’t think he intends to disown you. I know you won’t because much as you complain you are sickly loyal to your own land, and you talk about moving to Enbarr only in jest. 
> 
> Also I wouldn’t have to cast you in the Opera. You’re strong, you’d move sets for me. Preferably shirtless.  
>   
> See I can fantasize too.  
>   
> My mother actually was warm and caring, and she likely would have hated you. She was a maid in a noble household before I was born, so she was wary of your type. If she were alive she absolutely would have forbidden me from going to see you. So I guess we are star crossed lovers in a way. That is appropriately romantic, I think. 
> 
> ~~My father and your parents are cut from the same cloth and I hate them already~~
> 
> I have written to Ashe at your request. I think I’m about to make a lifelong patron out of the new Count Gaspard. One who will support my vision for using the profits to _help_ the people of Enbarr.  
>   
> Tell me more about your plans for Gautier. There must be something you can do besides slaughter. If you intend to change things, stop dreaming of patricide and start doing something.  
>   
> I find your beard enchanting and if you shaved it _I_ would weep. You certainly don’t want to cause that.  
>   
> I find your accusation that 19 is geriatric for the officers academy disturbing- You promised me you’d love me when I’m old but apparently in your eyes I was middle aged when we met. 
> 
> In response to your proclamations of chastity, I will provide you with my own. My home in Enbarr has a lovely and very _private_ little garden. I look forward to entertaining you there. I have a beautifully carved bench in one corner and the grass it sits on would probably cushion one’s knees well. If someone felt the need to kneel out there. Just a suggestion.  
>   
> Please write again. Your letter made me smile and miss you even more.  
>   
> Faithfully Yours,  
> Dorothea 

* * *

Despite the effort Dorothea put into her appearance her writing was choppy and blocky, almost childish in its style. He always found it incredibly endearing to read.

Not quite as endearing as the idea of her little garden…But those were thoughts for later. Damn, he just took a bath. And his stupid _correspondence_ really was waiting for him.  
  
He’d read the letter again, he resolved, before he slept. Especially the part about her loving him. Had she truly meant to put that in? Was it a joke? That would have been cruel to joke about.

He’d respond to her in the morning. Sylvain had promised Dorothea he’d write to her, she deserved him at his best. 

There was also the matter of his mother apparently checking who was writing to him. Later. He’d be mad later. 

Sylvain arrived at dinner with his parents bathed, groomed, but still rebelliously unshaven.  
  
Sylvain’s mother gave him one long stare and scoffed with disgust “Well I’m glad the ambassador isn’t here for this flagrant disrespect. Honestly Sylvain, I know you’re a soldier but you’re still nobility. Act your station.” 

“I act fine mother” Sylvain took his seat halfway down the table. Dinner was a formal affair despite the lack of visitors. An outside observer might think they were welcoming him home. How warm.  
  
The Margravine pursed her lips as if there was yet more bitterness on the tip of her tongue, but seemed to let the matter rest. 

Dinner was served, bland as ever but thankfully warm. Sylvain didn’t miss much about school, but the food was certainly better. And the company. They ate in silence. Which was really Sylvain’s preferred volume when it came to his family.  
  
“I trust that the border is secured given your return home?” His father asked with a harsh tone, not even looking him in the eye.  
  


“Yes,” Sylvain answered neutrally. He really didn’t want to start with his father. The border was fine. He didn’t need to deliver a full report.   
  
“And I’m to trust your word on this?” He challenged  
  
Sylvain squeezed his eyes tight and let out a breath. Ice. He was to be ice. 

“You trust me to lead the battalion. This is what I was born for was it not? I think I’d know if Sreng was invading.”  
  
“You were _born_ to ensure the future of our great house.” The Margrave boomed.  
  
Sylvain slammed his hands on the table “Then allow me to do so,” His stomach clenched. This was all part of his plan, he knew his father would doubt him, he needed to see it through. “We’ve seen no Sreng scouts or parties for days. I will ride back up there in a few days to ensure this myself.” 

He had the situation handled, and if his father got involved it would fall to shit immediately. Dorothea had encouraged him to _enact change_ . He would. He could. The letter he had hidden in the bottom of his most foul smelling riding boot was just the first step.  
  
His mother sighed, “Husband, our son has many important political connections that he must see to, please do not tie him to the border for the rest of his life. What was the point of letting him attend Garreg Mach if he will not _use_ his connections.”  
  


Here, this was his chance. 

  
“Mother are you worried about my correspondence?” Sylvain asked unassumingly. If she was snooping on his letters she had to have a reason. Nosiness was in her nature, but she was a Gautier. His mother picked her battles strategically. She was searching for something.  
  
She looked him straight in the eye, cutting at her dinner elegantly. “If you say it is handled then I have nothing to worry about. However, the Kleinman ambassador did raise an interesting point today and I just happened to see you had a letter from the king.” Her gaze gave nothing away. No guilt.  
  
“I did.” Sylvain confirmed. Dimitri’s letter had been platitudes, a few ideas for trade within territories that previously would have been subject to tariffs. Nothing shocking. But clearly his mother didn’t know that.  
  
“Kleinman has noticed his Majesty’s… Welcoming nature to those outside of Faerghus. Many of his closest comrades are not his countrymen”  
  


Sylvain bit the inside of his lip to keep from protesting. His mother’s xenophobia truly knew no bounds. She’d rather drink weak chamomile and meat seasoned with nothing but a little salt than dare admit something from outside Faerghus was superior.  
  
“We all fought a war together. You are bound to bond in those situations. It’s all Fodlan now anyway.”  
  
“Well it is but it isn’t. Not really. Has Dimitri said anything about titling his Duscur?” She asked, finally getting to her point. 

“Dedue.” 

“What?”  
  
“ _His Duscur_ as you put it, he has a name, it’s Dedue.” Sylvain glared at the Margravine, daring her to say something. “And no I have not heard anything of the sort. I believe that Dedue intends to continue serving Dimitri as his retainer in Fhirdiad. He said as such at the Fraldarius wedding. You could have asked him yourself if you had come.”

Sylvain began stabbing the blunt end of his fork into his thigh to keep from yelling. He had to stay calm. Picking a fight with his mother would just end in retaliation and he needed his parents to be placated at the moment. Dorothea, in Enbarr, with her private little garden. His note from Sreng. There were bigger things to fight about.  
  
“Well Kleinman is worried that His Majesty will get it into his head to _reward_ that man with a title. And perhaps some land. You do see where I’m going with this?” The contrast of the smoothness of her face and bitterness of her tone was truly impressive. 

“Dimitri has said absolutely nothing about giving Duscur back to Dedue or any of its people to control even though that would likely be appropriate given we now know that the people of Duscur were set up and we slaughtered them. You can tell Kleinman that His Majesty is trying to create a delicate balance of peace within the whole of our newly reunited Fodlan. I don’t think he’s making any moves that will cause upheaval.” _Yet_ Sylvain added silently.   
  
His father cut in, “As I said before, His Majesty is being strategic in his choices. He’s courting that Alliance girl too. Don’t give me that look Sylvain we older generations are not as blind or uninformed as you seem to think we are. It’s a smart strategic choice, though her parentage is obviously lacking.” He gave his wife a knowing look.  
  
Sylvain snorted, “Her parentage? She’s an Edmund. They were one of the most loyal supporters of the Kingdom in the war, the Margrave is proving instrumental in rebuilding efforts, even mother would have an issue finding fault with that family.” 

  
His father raised an eyebrow, “She’s a bastard.”  
  
This shocked Sylvain. His father was an asshole, but to his credit, generally a well informed one. “No she’s not. Adopted does not mean she’s a bastard father. The current Count Gaspard was in much the same situation.” 

“Reports from the army say she has some sort of crest, but no one can confirm exactly which one. Classic case of a Leicester noble’s bastard. The Margrave snapped her up as a child and legitimized her. In a generation or two the family would have pretended they had the crest all along. It is fairly commonplace practice” 

His mother laughed, “Better than an Empire bastard. Their morals were something else. Did you know, Sylvain, that it was considered perfectly acceptable, even encouraged, for Empire nobles to knock up anyone they could? Empire bloodlines are so thin these days they’d do anything to get a crest. They’d adopt their own bastards that they got on the maid.”  
  
“Don’t encourage him. He’ll defect to the Empire.” His father laughed. 

Sylvain took a deep breath. “There isn’t an Empire to defect to anymore. I saw to that personally.” There were a grand total of two things his parents liked about him, his crest, and his ability to fight. They were in a good mood, even at his expense. He was close. He could do this. 

Was that _pride_ on his father’s face? Disgusting.

  
  
“Speaking of my connections, I was hoping to make a trip to Enbarr if things on the border remain quiet. Ferdinand is doing excellent work, but I think it wouldn’t hurt for someone from Faerghus to come advise for a moment. They are not used to scarcity and restraint as we are. The former Adrestians will see that they will be better managed with some disciplined Kingdom leadership. The King suggested as much.” All lies. But pretty ones. And ones that he _just_ wrote a letter to Dimitri suggesting. Dimitri would back Sylvain up if his parents asked. 

His mother looked pleased, she always liked picturing him as a man of state. Gautier was a strong territory, but its influence was limited due to their location and endless border protection responsibilities. 

His father on the other hand…  
  
“Is this about that woman?” he asked disparagingly. 

“What woman?” His mother asked quickly.  
  
“The one he’s sleeping with. The opera singer”  
  
Sylvain’s heart dropped. Sure he hadn’t been _subtle_ at the wedding but how on earth did his father know? Was he just guessing?  
  
Sylvain felt himself panic and took a long sip of wine to try to distract himself, give himself time to think.  
  
“I sleep with a lot of people, you’ll have to be more specific.”  
  
Stupid. That was stupid. 

His father gave him a long look, his eyes narrowing.  
  
“You and I both know that isn’t exactly true Sylvain. Again, I will remind you that I am not _an imbecile_ and that while you commanded the Gauiter Knights, they answer to me.”  
  
His own damn battalion was _spying_ on him? He should have expected that. Those bastards. The household might like him, individuals might prefer him, but at the end of the day his father was still Margrave.  
  
His mother chimed in, “Sylvain are you _courting_ someone?” She tried to hide her excitement. It was almost endearing. Sylvain could for a moment pretend that his mother was excited by the prospect of him being in love or being happy. That his family was normal. 

“She’s not a noble so they’re not _courting_ . She’s Adrestian besides.” His father scoffed  
  
Sylvain was losing control of the situation quickly, “She was a general in the Kingdom army during the war so I’m not sure that argument holds water father.”  
  
His mother smiled slyly, “So you _are_ courting someone. Apparently an inappropriate choice, but we always expected as much from you.”  
  
Sylvain sighed, as if he had been cornered and defeated.  
  
“Yes. She has famously turned down every offer of marriage ever sent her way, so I’m not sure anything will come of it.” He looked down at his plate, trying to exude an air of defeat, a lack of confidence. 

  
“Some Adrestian commoner is not going to turn down the future Margrave Gautier.” His mother said, offended, at the same time his father bellowed “The future Margrave Gauiter will not marry an Adrestian commoner.” 

Sylvain’s parents turned to look at each other, having one of their silent, long suffering arguments. They were adept politically and a large credit of that was their ability to hold a unified front on quite literally anything presented to them. If they were split it meant they were wavering, suggestible.  
  
This was good. This was very, very good.  
  
“Nobody at this table really has any say over that. I intend to marry her if she will have me. She is a strong leader, charismatic, and a very talented Gremory. Despite her birth she has excellent political ties on all corners of the continent and is close friends with the princess of Brigid.” He had their attention, he could see the wheels turning. His father appreciated political savvy, and would do the math to realize that if Dorothea was that well connected while coming from nothing she had to be _good_ . Now for the killer, “I have never shown interest in marrying anyone before, much to your discontent. If I could be happy and satisfied with this woman the chances of me _embarrassing_ our family would greatly diminish.” He finished darkly.  
  
His parents again looked towards each other again for a long moment. His mother sighed. His father glowered.  
  
“You will bring her here and allow us to meet her before you make any true plans. If we allow this, you will not bring scandal to us. No bastards, no extramarital affairs. You will do your duty to this house and continue the line with a **crested** heir. None of this soft modern nonsense of allowing the eldest to inherit regardless of crest. Yes I know about the King’s plan for _that_ as well. You will ensure she agrees to this, and I will tentatively approve.”  
  
He agreed to very little of it, aside from remaining faithful to Dorothea. But Sylvain could work with that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're the worst. Thankfully we won't see them for a few more chapters. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Next time, Ferdinand, more lewd drawings, and the Opera.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touch starved in Enbarr

Ferdinand’s work as the new unofficial Governor of former Adrestia kept him running between Aegir territory and Enbarr, never staying in one place for long. He joked often that while he always preferred horseback riding, he was glad to have learned the fine art of handling a Wyvern. It certainly helped his mobility. And his Wyvern, Ambrosia, was a delightful beast to care for. 

No matter his packed schedule he had made a habit of making time for Dorothea when he was in town. It was strange, Dorothea couldn’t imagine telling her younger self that _Ferdinand Von Aegir_ would be one of her dearest friends one day. 

They ate a quick, informal dinner in her dressing room in the opera house after a Sunday performance of _Loog_ . Ferdinand had attended three times already. While going over his laundry list of obligations for the week Ferdinand mentioned that Sylvain was planning on meeting with him while in Enbarr. “I am very glad that Sylvain has chosen to take courting you more seriously. He does not deserve you, yet his willingness to try makes me appreciate him more as a potential suitor.”   
  
“Oh, did he write to you?” Dorothea asked, eyeing him suspiciously. Sylvain was coming? That was news to her. Exciting news. Was he avoiding her? Trying to surprise her and Ferdinand ruined it? If it had been a diplomatic letter it may have been rushed or sent by express messenger. Sylvain couldn’t spare that expense for her (or wouldn’t, assuming that she couldn’t afford the cost of Pegasus post herself). So maybe she just hadn’t received his letter yet. Dorothea tried to calm herself.   
  
“Yes, though thankfully my letter was free of any… artistic expression. I would have fainted right in my office in Aegir” Ferdinand bushed. 

Dorothea cackled, “Well I should hope so!”  
  
The first time Ferdinand noticed Sylvain’s self portrait he had nearly shattered Dorothea’s teapot. After recovering his breath he finally acquiesced “I can understand that you find these sorts of things humorous and you miss Sylvain but it is absolutely vulgar and surely intended for your eyes only.”

Full of mischief Dorothea had replied “So I should not encourage Lorenz to do the same for you?”

Ferdinand, if possible, blushed deeper. “I did not say that.” He considered for a moment, “I merely said such drawings were perhaps meant to be kept between lovers. And Lorenz is a far superior artist, his would be less abstract. I had to get a closer look at Sylvain’s because I thought it was a sketch of a Brigid flower before I realized it was a… and by the time I realized exactly who and what it was, it was merely inches from my face!”  
  
Coincidently, Ferdinand seemed to prefer meeting in her dressing room lately.   
  
Sylvain’s letter was waiting for her when she arrived home that evening. 

* * *

> To Enbarr’s finest propagandist, 
> 
> You say you’ll include no drawings in your letters, but I have included a great many in this one. I have ideas for what we can get up to in that garden of yours. With references. Please select from the attached menu.   
>   
> All of this is to say I am coming to Enbarr, though this letter will arrive before me. I should arrive by the first week of Great Tree Moon.   
>   
> Are you aware, Miss Arnault, that your last letter was the very first time you’ve said you loved me?   
>   
> I read that section so many times just to make sure I wasn’t misreading your writing. That is not a slight at your penmanship. I think I was so giddy at the thought that you _love_ me that my father could not stand to have me around anymore. Happiness disgusts him.   
>   
> Hey, whatever gets me closer to you, right?   
>   
> I took what you wrote to heart, I told you, you make me want to be better. So I do have a vision for Gautier and it starts with making peace with Sreng. We won their land in a war they started lifetimes ago, and Faerghus settled it, built villages. There are children who are being born there today whose grandparents were born there- they’ve known no other home. Gautier has needed it for food production in the past, desperately, but now that Fodlan is united we could import food from all over the continent so… do we truly need it? But if we gave the land back would they come hunting for more? 
> 
> It’s a complicated situation, but I don’t think it’s impossible. We just need to talk.   
>   
>   
> I’m going to tell you about a “Fantasy” of mine.   
>   
> The situation in Sreng seemed to be calm for the moment. A blizzard raged- and just as they planned a handsome redhead had a rendezvous with a Sreng general under the cover of night and snow and together worked out a deal. Both sides agreed it is pointless to be fighting over the same damn river that is too salty and shallow for anyone to use. But you see… it’s been the official border for the last twenty years and both sides are apt to break into violence if they think someone on the other side is _thinking_ of trying to cross it. The generals made their armies like ill fated lovers, with patrolling schedules that will always pass by without ever catching a glimpse of the other.   
>   
> The general is, for what it is worth, incredibly handsome. He told me my beard makes me look Srengi and he thinks I could be a reasonable man. _Reasonable? Me?_ He must be smitten. In another life I think I would have liked to fuck him but alas, I am already taken. It’s probably best for diplomacy.   
>   
> Diplomacy, with Sreng. My father will have my head. Not my cock, he needs me to continue the line, but absolutely my head. What’s a little treason between father and son? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. 
> 
> To be honest if you reject me one more time I may just run away to Sreng- it would solve most of my issues.   
>   
> I know that marriage does not solve everything Dorothea. I went five years without seeing you once. I went seven months with nothing but a handful of letters. I know it takes only two weeks or so for letters to get between us now but I cannot fathom doing this much longer.   
>   
> I know this is unfair to you. But I feel as if I have no true friends here anymore. I’ve been away too long. The Gautier Knights? The men and women I led, trained with, grew up alongside in many cases? Apparently they’ve been reporting on my actions to my father. My mother is days away from trying to read my letters.   
>   
> Unsurprisingly, they know about you. And I think I convinced them to approve. They hardly tolerate me most days so you really are a special woman.   
>   
> I love you. I love you so much it hurts. Or I love you so much that I miss you so much it hurts. 
> 
> You love me too, I think. Please agree to marry me. It doesn’t need to be today, but. Someday. Soon. Please. I cannot be alone like this anymore. Once upon a time I could fill the holes with… you know... filling holes. But I’ve had you and no one will compare.   
>   
> I’m pathetic. You are reading this hopefully days before my arrival. Forget about the rest of this letter. Just my drawings. You can keep my drawings. 
> 
> You are the finest of all women. If I shall die of despair and loneliness, at least I shall know I had your heart at one time.   
>   
> I intended for horny pining. I may have missed that mark but the longer I write, the longer I delay my leave. I will see you soon. Use my drawings to keep yourself company. 
> 
> _  
> Faithfully Yours,  
>  Sylvain Jose Gautier. _
> 
> * * *

_Loog_ had opened to excellent reviews and was quickly becoming a challenging ticket to acquire. So when Dorothea received Sylvain’s letter she had started reserving him a ticket nightly, just in case. They needed to talk, truly talk, before they got too distracted in their reunion.   
  
Sylvain seemed so distraught in his writings. He should have been excited at the very least about his meeting with Sreng. Yet it seemed like any levity, any joy at the thought of seeing her again was buried under a mountain of bitterness. What on earth were his parents doing to him? 

Dorothea had no parents to speak of, so perhaps she couldn’t understand, but it was as if Sylvain was held captive by his loyalty to Gautier. Even if it made him miserable, he refused to consider any other options outside of only moving at his father’s command.   
  
Dorothea lingered backstage after the Opera, mingling. Iah, the Baritone playing Pan, had brought his family to the performance that night much to Dorothea’s delight. When Iah had just been her cobbler, his daughter snuck Dorothea into his workroom claiming that her daddy was a singer too. Was he ever. 

Ever since, Iah’s daughter Layla was a little obsessed with Dorothea. The feeling was genuinely mutual. Dorothea was carrying Layla around on her hip showing her all of the set pieces and sneaking her snacks from the communal table backstage. 

Layla chattered on about school and her new friends, her white ponytail bouncing as she waved at every member of the company. She took to being an opera house kid like a duck to water. Though Dorothea and Iah had both agreed, Layla would _not_ be introduced to performing until she was much older. If ever. 

“Miss Dorothea can I wear your crown?” Layla asked, pulling at the tiara Dorothea had yet to remove.   
  
“It’s a little attached to my head baby, here, let’s stop in my dressing room. I’ll unpin it and you can try it on before I pack it back up for the night. Just don’t let the costume mistress know.” Dorothea winked conspiratorially.   
  
“I promise!” Layla squealed. 

Dorothea opened the door and tried not to shriek at the man on her sofa. Sylvain was lounging, reading through one of her notebooks, dressed for the opera in a formal coat. He noticed the door was open and looked up with a grin. 

  
“Sylvain! You’re here!” Dorothea went to run for him, suddenly filled with light. He was _here_ in Enbarr. In her opera house. In her dressing room.   
  
“Oh who’s this Dorothea? I didn’t see her in the opera.” Sylvain postured and waved at Layla. 

“I’m Layla! My daddy is in the opera so Miss Dorothea is going to let me wear her tiara. Who are YOU?” She asked, squirming to be put down. Dorothea acquiesced and watched, amused. Layla really had a way with people.   
  
Sylvain bowed low, “Hello Miss Layla, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Sylvain Jose Gautier, and I am a very good friend of Miss Dorothea’s”   
  
“Well I am a better friend of Miss Dorothea’s. She’s not going to share her crown with _you_ . Because you’re a boy” Layla insisted.   
  
Sylvain laughed, “Well I cannot argue with a lady as fine as you. You have excellent fashion sense. Dorothea, do you need help with that?” Sylvain walked over to where Dorothea was struggling to unpin the piece from her head. Her fingers were shaking, she was so excited and she just wanted to jump him but Layla was there and they absolutely needed to talk first. 

His hands dug into her hair and deftly helped free the tiara from Dorothea’s head. Dorothea tried not to lean into his touch. He was always so incredibly warm.   
  
Sylvain held out the crown, “Miss Layla, I believe you were owed this?”   
  
The little girl sprinted over “Okay but do it like they do in the show!” and curtsied, bowing her head.   
  
Sylvain stood and raised the tiara above his head, solemnly. “Miss Layla, it is my honor to bestow upon you this very important and expensive crown, owed to you by being the better friend of Miss Dorothea Arnault. Do you accept the honor?”   
  
Layla whispered, “No you have to sing it!” 

Dorothea laughed, “Layla you really don’t want that. Now do you accept the honor?” 

  
Layla sighed and resumed her pose, taking the tiara onto her head. She climbed onto Dorothea’s makeup stool to get a look of herself in the mirror, squealing at the sight.   
  
“I look beautiful!”   
  
Dorothea beamed, “You sure do.”   
  
“Can I show my dad?”   
  


Dorothea looked over to Sylvain. The longer they lingered here the longer it would take to get onto other things.   
  
“Quickly, and please be careful with it.”   
  
“I will be SO careful! I will bring it right back, after daddy sees it!” Layla scurried out of the room, slamming the door behind her.   
  
“She was cute” Sylvain said smiling softly.   
  
“She’s a handful, she’s also the reason I have Iah so I will do pretty much anything she asks of me. Thank you for humoring her” Dorothea began to unbutton the fur lined cloak that comprised the top layer of her costume.   
  
“Woah, I know it’s been a few moons but Layla is coming right back. I don’t even think we could squeeze in a quickie Thea.” 

“Very funny. It’s my costume Sylvain, if I don’t have it to the costume mistress in the next ten minutes for cleaning she’ll have my head.”   
  
“I can help with that” Sylvain was behind her suddenly, helping her unlace her dress. He slid the straps down her shoulders and paused, trailing down her arms. His hands spanned her waist, lingering, keeping her dress from falling completely. His fingertips brushing lightly against the bottoms of her breasts.   
  
“Sylvain. My costume.” Dorothea started, softly. 

  
He kissed her bare shoulder, “Let me enjoy this for a moment” soft lips pressed against her throat. The contact sent electricity down her spine.   
  
Dorothea made a soft noise. He felt incredible. He still hadn’t shaved, good. Another kiss was given gently against her cheek. The warmth lingered.   
  
“You are most certainly the most beautiful woman in Fodlan.” He said quietly. Dorothea leaned her head into him, following the path his lips followed. Angling for more. Whatever he would give. She wanted him to bite her. This was torture. There was no room for gentleness in this room when he was kissing her everywhere but her mouth and her dress was half off and they hadn’t seen each other in months.   
  
He pulled his hands away, letting her gown fall, “Now let’s get you naked.”   
  
Dorothea rolled her eyes, stepping out of the puddle of cloth, “To think I missed you.”   
  
“I missed you”   
  
“Yes I know, you said as much in your last letter.”   
  
Sylvain’s face slipped for a moment before settling into a good natured neutrality. “Ah, yes. That letter. I um… I should probably apologize for that one.”   
  
“For implicating me in your treason?” 

“No for being lonely and pathetic. I was not at my best that day and I took it out on the paper. You’ve already committed treason once, what’s a second time?”   
  
Dorothea sighed. “I committed treason against a country that no longer exists. I don’t think that counts.”   
  
Sylvain laughed, helping Dorothea to hang the various pieces back on a costume rack neatly.   
  
“Well mine does. But we’ll talk about it somewhere a little more… private.”   
  


Dorothea slipped back into her day dress, buttoning up the neck piece as Sylvain finished with her costume.   
  
“So who let you in here?” Dorothea asked.   
  
“Oh when I got my ticket the woman, I forget her name, she scribbled something on it and said that I should run back here after the show ended to surprise you.” He held out the ticket.   
  
The back said “Sneak this man into Dorothea’s dressing room and do not tell anyone he is here. Ferdinand’s orders.”   
  
Dorothea laughed, resolving to thank Ferdinand for her surprise at their next dinner.   
  
“So what did you think of the Opera?”   
  
“Too short. Missing two full acts for my taste” Sylvain joked. 

“But honestly?” She asked, suddenly self conscious. It was silly, to want his approval so badly when genuinely this was her area of expertise. But she wanted him to love it. _Loog_ was, in a lot of ways, a love letter to Faerghus.   
  
Except it was Faerghus for an Adrestrian audience. Loog was ambitious, savvy, and likeable. He surrounded himself with other ambitious and talented people, who he elevated alongside him. It was a story of striving, with a likeable lead with a strong vision for the future. 

Writing Loog made Dorothea reckon with what she actually liked about Faerghus. There were no people in Fodlan more loyal or honest. No people more willing to stick their neck out for their friends, family, and what they thought was the right thing to do.  
  
Sylvain was right, she had committed treason. She had chosen Faerghus over Adrestia. _Loog_ was her way to say _Adrestia, I was right. Join me. The water is freezing and tense, but no one there will let you die in it alone._   
  


“Dorothea it was great. You are the most incredible composer- You took this very dry “and then he prayed to the goddess for victory and she blessed him” story and made it engrossing! Loog and the Maiden of the Wind is a romance but it’s not sexy and maybe I’m biased because I’m in love with her actress but those scenes were _sexy_ And Iah… Wow. WOW. I will die proclaiming you are the world’s best singer but-”   
  
“But he has the most magical voice you’ve ever heard?”   
  
“How does someone sound like that? Was he a singer back in Duscur?”   
  
“No! He’s a cobbler. He had no training, and only the technique he’s learned in a month. He’s just… Talent. Incredible, unparalleled talent. And imagine how good he’ll be with a little more training! He keeps threatening that this is a one time deal but I will convince him to stay on with Mittlefrank. It would be a tragedy if he stopped. I could write _opera_ about how tragic it would be except it could never be performed because nobody would be able to sing it”   
  
“Now you’re just being dramatic” A deep voice called from the doorway. Iah gently pushed Layla back into the room, who reluctantly put the tiara back into its box.   
  
“I am not being dramatic. Sylvain, tell him it would be a tragedy.”   
  
“Sir, I was ready to attend every production Mittlefrank puts on yet I will never buy another ticket if you are not present,” Sylvain too was skilled at melodrama, it was cute.   
  
“Sylvain? Ah this is your… paramour Dorothea?” Iah asked, giving Sylvain a curious look.   
  
“Yes this is Sylvain, Sylvain this is Iah”   
  
“An actual honor to meet you. Dorothea has gushed about you in her letters” Sylvain held out his hand   
  
Iah reciprocated, with a strong handshake. Right, cobbler. “Likewise.”   
  
“Daddy what’s a paramour?” Layla asked   
  
Iah’s face paled. “I think that’s our cue to leave. Don’t stay up too late kids.”   
  
Dorothea smiled coyly, “No promises.”   
  
The door shut again and they were once again alone.   
  
“So how long do I have you for?” Dorothea asked, putting on her shoes. 

“About a week. There’s some patrol routes that I have to keep tabs on, you know? I set up a meeting with Ferdinand during your day show,”   
  
“Matinee” 

“Right. Matinee. Your schedule is thankfully very public, so I’m free when you’re free as far as I can tell. I’ll come see the show again, of course.”  
  
“Of course” 

  
Sylvain wrapped his arms around Dorothea again, kissing her cheek. “So… rumor has it you love me.” 

Dorothea wrapped her arms around his neck, “Vicious rumors. Liars. Who would say such a thing?”   
  
He looked so genuinely hopeful as he said, “You?”   
  
It melted her heart. Any plans of _talking about things_ before she let herself get carried away floated into the ether.   
  
“I love you Sylvain.”   
  
There. She said it.   
  
He traced the line of her cheek with his fingers for a moment before leaning in to kiss her. Tentatively, softly. He had been treating her as if she was made of glass all evening.   
  
“You’re going to regret saying that” he said lightly with a huffed chuckle. His words lingered sourly in the air.   
  
“I won’t” 

“I’ll make you,”   
  
“Don’t” Dorothea kissed him again, and again. How very like Sylvain, to ask for something and then try to back out of it. To ask for love, but deny it was being given. His heart was such a broken thing, pulled apart by his family and seeing his friends’ lives crumble around them. He asked for only the things he thought he would be denied. 

  
“I’ll try” he said after a moment. He looked serious, jaw set into place, a familiarity struck Dorothea that she couldn’t quite place. As if they weren’t having a tender moment.   
  
“I love you” She said again, holding his face, making him look at her.   
  
This time he smiled, a true one, a soft one. The smile that made Dorothea want to say yes to every single thing he asked of her.   
  
The door opened again and the Costume Mistress brushed right past them, “Don’t mind me. Carry on.” She collected the rack and wheeled it out of the room.   
  
Sylvain huffed out a laugh and straightened his coat.   
  
“So, hey… about that garden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter really earning that M rating so...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A great deal of kneeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change, not terribly explicit but if you want to skip that section just read after the first break.

Sylvain wasn’t sure how he ended up here. He wasn’t a good person. He had done absolutely nothing in his short, miserable life to deserve this. 

Two weeks ago he was freezing his ass off in the middle of a snowstorm, committing light treason under the cover of the icy winds by negotiating with the very people he was born to subdue.   
  
Today?   
  
Today he was kneeling with his trousers around his knees and his face between Dorothea’s thighs.   
  
She was incredible, she was always so responsive and it made him crazy.   
  
And she loved him. Not in the way women always said they did, where they loved the flirty, lazy, handsome, wealthy heir of Gautier. She loved Sylvain, the fucked up, angry, real version of him. 

Dorothea gasped above him. Serios, she tasted incredible. How was he expected to do anything else in Enbarr when he could be doing this? He was torturing her, just a little, just enough to make her feel as eager and frustrated as he felt every moment of their separation. He knew to drag his tongue slower than he knew she liked, to linger in spots that were almost where she wanted him. Her legs squeezed tighter around him. He was sure he would die right there. No man was meant to have this. 

He was going to die happy and warm, what a twist of fate.   
  


“Sylvain” she murmured his name. This was nice, she could be louder. He could make her louder. He sped up his efforts and nipped at her clit lightly. Still not fast enough. Dorothea didn’t scream easily but it suddenly became the world’s most urgent manner.   
  
Her hand laced into his hair, pulling, “Sylvain!”   
  
The sensation shot right through him, was he ever so hard in his life? He couldn’t remember. Probably not. He’d already come once tonight, with her hand fisting around him. It wasn’t enough. His brain could no longer function, could no longer focus on anything but the feast before him and the feeling of her grip on his hair. He added a finger sliding into her, hoping to get her to do it again, pull harder, make it hurt.   
  
She pulled harder, and he took the encouragement, curling his finger just so, feeling her clench. Her palm pushed against his forehead, “Sylvain, hey.”   
  
It took every inch of his quickly diminishing willpower to back off a centimeter, head resting on her thigh. She squirmed like crazy when he brushed his beard against her earlier. He could work with this position. This was just a pause, just a second, if they stopped he’d die. He looked up at her, eyes pleading for direction.   
  
Terrible mistake. Dorothea was a vision. Her face was flushed and her skirt was bunched up around her hips. Her bodice unlaced but still painfully _on_ . He could fix that. They could both be wearing fewer clothes, yes, they both needed to be naked immediately. It was so hot in Enbarr, how could anyone ever hope to stay dressed?   
  
“Sylvain?” She said something else, maybe? Did he miss it? She was so entrancing. Wait. Yes. She was definitely talking.   
  
“Sorry I’m a little distracted Thea, what?” 

She stroked his hair gently, “I asked if you wanted to come inside?”   
  
His blood ran cold. What? That was not what he expected her to say. What? Sure Dorothea liked children but… Now? Was she so unsure of their relationship that she wanted to get pregnant for insurance? What? No. That wasn’t like her.   
  
“Dorothea I don’t think… I mean we haven’t ever done that before and I’m trying to do the right thing here and…”   
  
Her hand stilled in his hair and she looked desperately confused before her eyes widened with understanding and then she had the grace to laugh, loudly.   
  
“No! No, I meant my bed. There’s been a mosquito on your ass for the past two minutes and as delightful as it is out here I think it’s just going to be more practical indoors? I worry for your knees.” 

It was his turn to feel embarrassed now. A small part of him flooded with relief that she hadn’t been asking him to… but he could catch the littlest bit of disappointment in the back of his mind. He’d dwell on _that_ later. 

“Ohhhh are you inviting me into your _bed?_ Because you have more plans for my precious knees? _”_ he purred, sliding up to sit on the bench. Trousers on or off? He decided he could retrieve them in the morning, and kicked them down his legs. 

She kissed him, hands sliding over his chest.   
  
“Sylvain I swear if you are not under me in the next two minutes I will kill you.”   
  
“Well we wouldn’t want that”   
  
He lifted her over his shoulder and carried her back inside the house. 

* * *

“I cannot believe that you eat in bed.” Sylvain gasped, offended. The morning light in Dorothea’s home was just incredible, she was glowing as she prepared breakfast.   
  
“Not usually! You looked cozy, I thought it would be sweet.” Dorothea placed food on her small table, having been resoundly turned down for breakfast in bed.   
  
“Yeah until there are crumbs! We have sex there! Eating in bed is vile.” Sylvain crossed the room to her table, not bothering to dress. There were no plans this morning other than to be together. It would inevitably turn that way, why create obstacles?   
  
Dorothea laughed, kissing him on the forehead. She decided to put on a nightgown despite his protests, the sheer fabric mostly covering the important bits. He could take care of that after they ate.   
  
Dorothea hated skipping meals and his goal for the week was to keep her deliriously, insanely happy. Last night was a start. Food first, other hungers after.   
  
“So about your garden. Compare it to what you envisioned. Did it live up to your expectations?” Sylvain asked cheekily. 

  
Dorothea hummed, considering. “You know… it was so dark out there last night. I don’t think I got the full experience. We’ll have to revisit that.”   
  
Sylvain tried to think of something unfortunate, something gross or painful to keep from having to eat with a hard on. Messy rooms. Bleeding scabs. The itchy bite on his ass. Watching Dorothea kiss the actor playing Loog.   
  
Well that shouldn’t have worked so well.   
  
“Hey I know we didn’t really talk about it too much, but um… Is there anything you didn’t like about the show last night?” She tucked her hair behind her ear. She was so beautiful with this little serious look on her face.   
  
“It was perfect” he said quickly.   
  
“I’m not fishing for compliments, I'm asking. It’s not a story I grew up with and not a ton of people outside of Enbarr have seen it yet, but eventually I’ll have a wider audience. From your perspective, is there anything that seemed off? Weird? Wrong?”   
  
Ah

“In my repressed Faerghan perspective you mean?”   
  
She blushed, “I wouldn’t call you repressed Sylvain.”   
  
She would actually. She definitely used the word before. Sure he was much freer with sex than most of his countrymen but he could tell when she was unhappy with him. They still needed to talk about their future, about marriage, about his father’s terms. He wasn’t sure how to start that conversation. Sylvain was no stranger to the fact he was emotionally constipated- he was self aware enough for that.   
  
Words always came easily to him. It was actually feeling things he struggled with.   
  


“But yes, _Loog_. Written by Adrestians for Adrestians? Or does it have a wider appeal?” 

  
He racked his brain, running through the Opera. He really enjoyed _Loog_ on the whole. He didn’t love her choice to make Loog resemble Dimitri if he was being honest. He got why she made the choice but it just felt hollow. That wasn’t a fair critique. 

  
“Oh um… actually I have one thing that was weird. In the song near the end, when Loog is singing about how he’s going to build this great land and he needs the maiden to join him. The staging seemed weird to me.” Sylvain admits.   
  
“What was weird about the staging?” Dorothea asked with a mouthful of breakfast. She didn’t seem offended but merely curious.   
  
“It’s this powerful song, he’s just won and is at the height of authority. He’s singing about his power to change things so it’s a little off to me that he’s kneeling through the whole thing.”   
  
Dorothea’s confusion was not abated. Her eyebrows knit together.   
  
“It’s a proposal song Sylvain.” She answered.   
  
This did not clarify things. 

“Yeah no I got that. So he’s kneeling because she has the power to decide? To make them seem like equals? Sorry I don’t totally get the choice. He’s telling her how he’ll provide for her, why make himself small?” Was there something he missed?   
  
“Sylvain he’s kneeling because he’s proposing.” Dorothea explained as if he was a very young child.   
  
“Yes but why is he kneeling?”   
  
“Because he’s proposing!” 

“That doesn’t mean anything!” 

Dorothea stopped for a moment and tucked her hair behind her shoulders.  
  
“Sylvain do men not kneel when they propose in Faerghus?” 

This was news to Sylvain. Huh. _Kneeling_?   
  
“No? Do they do that in Adrestia?”   
  
Dorothea smiled, “Yes Sylvain. Traditionally a man gets down on one knee to propose to a woman here. I like the analysis about giving her power or coming at her as equals, but I’m not sure why, just… they do.” 

  
Interesting. 

“No they don’t do that in Faerghus” Sylvain admitted. He didn’t love not knowing things, he loved pretending to not know things. Actual ignorance made him a little queasy. 

“So what do they do in Faerghus?” Dorothea asked, curious.   
  
Sylvain felt his stomach clench a little, but muscled through taking a huge bite of breakfast. It gave him time to think. It wasn’t like her to bring up marriage with him. He did not mean to bring it up, honestly. Not yet. But they were only talking generally.   
  
Sylvain could admit that part of his reason for coming was to propose to Dorothea again and really talk through exactly why she wouldn’t consider marrying him so he could fix it. Convince her. But apparently they weren’t even speaking the same language when it came to such things. Did she think he wasn’t serious about her because he hadn’t been on his knees?   
  
“You just talk about it in Faerghus. Nobles’ arranged marriages are basically decided by letters. But if it’s a love match it’s usually a conversation between the two people where they agree to be together. Rings are generally exchanged as a symbol of intent but aren’t considered absolutely necessary.”   
  
Dorothea blushed, “So you have… in your eyes… actually proposed to me? When you’ve asked me to marry you?”   
  
Oh. Apparently they were talking about this. Okay. He could keep it light, just talk about the actual act of proposing. Not… them.   
  
“I didn’t know you didn’t know!” 

“So you actually have… You were trying to initiate that conversation? I just thought you were trying to see if I was even open to the idea… Oh...Sylvain.” Dorothea seemed suddenly very interested in her plate even though she wasn’t touching her food. Sylvain tried to give her a moment to process. 

Not the same language at all. 

“We don’t have to talk about this right now if you don't want to.” They were going to fight, she was going to cry again and it would be his fault, this was not how he wanted things to go. He just wanted to have a nice morning.   
  
“No we can. We should. I wanted to talk about this last night before we got distracted. Just. This is not a proposal. This is a conversation. We’re in Enbarr, these are Enbarr customs.” Dorothea started.   
  
Sylvain took a deep breath. He loved her. He could talk about this, maybe it would be better if there was no pressure of making a decision at that exact moment. They could speak in hypotheticals.   
  
“I love you” he said

“I love you too” he would never tire of hearing her say that.   
  
She looked at him as if she was trying to take in the moment, he could see the gears turn in her head.   
  
“Would you mind… Could you at least put something on before we…?”   
  
Sylvain remembered at that moment that he was naked. Right. Funny. He thought breakfast was going to end in sex not… whatever this was. He sprung from the table and groped around on the floor next to the bed for his dressing gown. Maybe it would be easier to have this conversation at another time but the privacy her home afforded was honestly perfection. They were never truly alone before, thin tent and dorm room walls afforded no true privacy. They’d never be alone in Gauiter, his parents would see to that.   
  
She smiled at him softly, “Better.” 

Sylvain tried to pull himself out of his head. He was getting overwhelmed, distracted. He was not meant to manipulate her here. She actually wanted to talk about marriage. Marriage to him. She was considering it. He could convince her.   
  
Sitting on the edge of the bed he tried to start, “I know we’re not exactly on the same page but Dorothea I want to marry you. I know you have reservations and concerns, and you should. Honestly you should have run screaming. But you haven’t and you love me and I love you and I just want to prove to you that I can be faithful to you and whatever else I need to do. What do I need to do?” 

Dorothea sighed. “It’s not about proving something to me Sylvain. I know you love me,”   
  
Hope, horrible terrible hope.   
  
“If I were to be your wife what would happen?” A simple question to start. Baseline.   
  
“We’d get married. I’d be faithful to you.”   
  
“No, what would happen to me? What does that entail? Nothing about this is as easy as us just getting married- monogamy is the least of my concerns.” 

The terms Sylvain’s father laid out echoed in his head. Heirs. Crested heirs.   
  
“We would… You’d have to come to Gauiter. I know that is a big ask, but it’s genuinely not as terrible as I complain that it is. But I am going to be the Margrave and I need to be there to manage the territory. I’ve talked about my plans for Sreng and I would really need to work on that but I think I could convince Dimitri to order me to negotiate so…”  
  
“Sylvain you’re talking about yourself. What about me? I’m assuming I’d have to retire from Mittlefrank, I’m not going to do nothing at all after that. What is my role there?”   
  
Sylvain felt himself start to sweat. Had her home been this hot a few moments ago? He shouldn’t have gotten dressed.   
  
“You, yes, right. Unfortunately I do think you’d have to retire and I’m sorry about that. I understand if that is the end of this. You’ve always said you thought your days with Mittlefrank would end eventually, and you wanted to be stable after. I can do that for you.”   
  
He paused and she nodded. Why was this so hard? He was, in a lot of ways, giving Dorothea every single thing she ever said she wanted. She wanted to be loved, she wanted security. He could do both.   
  
But it was similar to what he was thinking the night before. He loved Dorothea the _person_. And she would, deep down, hate the terms of this. Hate what _he_ was agreeing to. 

“You would become Margravine when I inherit. We’d be a team politically. You would manage the household which considering you’ve run the opera company isn’t so different. It’s a lot of making sure the right people are doing the right jobs. You’d get to pick focus for projects in the territory, I know you’re really devoted to orphanages here and you did amazing things for the kids at Garreg Mach and I really think you’d be able to do a lot up there. You’d have a lot of resources at your disposal, and a lot of influence to help sway others to pitch in.” 

She curled her long hair around a finger, and slowly crossed the room to join him on the bed. She leaned in and studied his face for a long moment. The silence was painful.   
  
“What are you lying about?”   
  
“I’m not lying about anything!” He denied. Omission wasn’t lying in his book. How on earth was he supposed to explain... She would hate it. He hated it. It would be a dealbreaker. She loved children. She would never agree. She might. He didn’t really want her to.   
  
“We can’t have this conversation if you won’t be honest with me Sylvain.” Dorothea’s eyes were cold. He was losing her. He would lose her. 

“There’s the matter of succession,” he blurted, “Small matter. Not a huge deal. Not complicated for me, since I’m the only one left who’s even eligible.” Why was he sweating? She needed to know. She was familiar with the intricacies, he complained about it enough. 

“Succession? I don’t follow Sylvain.” Adrenaline pumped through his body at her challenge.  
  
“I will become the Margrave after my father’s death or when he steps down.” Sylvain paused, feeling the world tunnel in. He could do this. It was just him and Dorothea and he could tell her. “The issue is he will only step down if I have an heir”   
  
Dorothea looked at him and reached for his hand. It was drenched in sweat. She held it anyway.   
  
Sylvain tried to breathe, but couldn’t relax enough to exhale. 

“Is that what’s making you sweat like we’re back at Aiell? Sylvain I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I really love children. Is that an issue for you? I just sort of assumed it was implied we’d have children” She was so soft, sweet almost. He felt a bit like a wounded animal who was being coaxed. Shit was she pitying him?   
  
“No. Children aren’t the issue. Not inherently. You see… the issue is an **heir** .” He emphasized the word like the death sentence it was.   
  
Dorothea ran her thumb outside of his own gently, but then stopped. She dropped his hand, pulling her own back to her chest.   
  
“You’re talking about crests” she accused, realization clouding her eyes.   
  
Sylvain crossed his arms uncomfortably. He nodded slowly, unable to form the words.   
  


“So for all the talk about crests ruined my life, crests are the worst thing to ever happen to Fodlan, nobility is stupid and crests don’t make a person good and I’ll prove that by being a womanizing, lazy, good for nothing even though I’m actually really smart and could actually be an incredible leader if I tried, but I won’t to prove that crests are stupid. Sylvain, _tear my crest out of my blood_ , Gautier. You are saying that you will rank our children based on if they have a crest or not?” She was furious, speaking quickly and pacing the room.   
  
“It’s not like that! I don’t have a choice!” He protested, relishing her rage. Dorothea defaulted to ice, this… this was different.   
  
“You always have a choice Sylvain.” 

“My father will not step down if I don’t have a crested heir, and he could very well live another thirty years. I will not wait that long.”   
  
“So you’ll just give in to the pressure from your father because you’re impatient?”   
  
“I am choosing my battles Dorothea! I am choosing to go along with this if it means I can make peace with Sreng. Real peace that lasts and isn’t made in covert meetings in the middle of a damn blizzard so nobody follows me or can track my footsteps. I can’t do any of that if I am not the absolute final word in Gautier.”   
  
Fuck. He was so angry he couldn’t breathe. She didn’t understand. She would never understand what his parents did to him. He shouldn’t have tried to bring her into this world. It was a mistake. Everything was a mistake. She should reject him right there. He could make her reject him. 

  
“I hate having a crest. I hated growing up with a brother who tried to kill me so many times that it became easier to ignore it than punish him because I had a crest and he didn’t. To be told “You’re stronger, if you want him to stop make him stop” from the time I was seven years old because I wasn’t fucking stronger, I was a **child** . I hate the idea that I may someday have to do that to my own child, shove them aside because they didn’t get the exact right kind of blood, when that is the absolute last thing I ever want to do because I know how badly that fucks someone up, but is what I’m going to have to do if I want peace.”   
  
“You won’t, I won’t let you.” Dorothea cut him off, still fuming, but softer. Embers waiting to be ignited.   
  
“What?”   
  
“I won’t let you shove any child aside for not having a crest. Who gives a shit who’s the heir?” 

  
“Everyone” Sylvain insisted.   
  
“I won’t, I won’t reject any child for not having a crest. So one inherits one day, the others do something else. Felix wasn’t supposed to inherit and he loved his brother. Caspar never seemed bothered by it. Hilda was grateful for it. You are the one who is choosing to favor one over the others.” 

“Dorothea you don’t understand… I’m not saying I’d reject them. But it’s different. What if the eldest gets passed over? Heirs are treated differently. ”   
  
“No they’re not. _You_ were treated differently. Make a choice and don’t do that. Unless that’s part of it too- treating them differently.”   
  
Sylvain could see her hurt, she was holding back tears. He hated crying, it was always a tool of manipulation. _See how badly you fucked up, see the beautiful thing in front of you become ugly and it’s your fault._ This seemed personal to her. Why on earth would it be personal?   
  
“Dorothea I’d never do that.”   
  
“You don’t sound sure.”   
  


“I’m not! Okay! I’m not sure because even though there seem to be plenty of people wandering around Fodlan with crests who are totally fine and well adjusted I’m **not.** I don’t know that I trust myself to be a good father because, as you’ve pointed out so kindly, my parents are not good or decent people. I don’t know how to treat children equally, I have no examples to follow. Deep down I think my father manipulated Miklan into hating me to make me have to fight for my birthright from the day I was born. How am I supposed to be sure I can treat my children differently when that is how I grew up?” 

Dorothea stood before him, grabbing his chin to make him look into her eyes. Her nails dug into his face.   
  
“Sylvain you say that you want to be better. So be better.”   
  
“I want to, I really want to Thea”   
  
She squeezed again, “Make a choice. You don’t get to have it both ways. I admire that you want to do what is best for Gautier. Self sacrifice is the only thing you know how to do, I understand that. But you don’t get to say that what was done to you was horrible and then say you are not sure you wouldn’t do it to your own children.”   
  
“Thea, just tell me what you want me to do.” He was desperate for this to be over, just, whatever she wanted he’d give her, he’d promise to her. It didn’t matter if he knew deep down he couldn’t promise anything-, he couldn’t stop from hurting people.   
  
Dorothea laughed, dropping his chin.   
  
“I want you to be a decent person Sylvain, for once in your life. Promise me that if I go to Gautier and play by all the ridiculous rules and pop out a thousand kids for you so one could be just the littlest bit stronger and wield your horrible weapon without turning into a beast that you will love the other ones who can’t. That’s it. I am not asking nearly as much of you as you are asking of me,” The look in her eyes could light a man on fire. 

It sounded so simple when she laid it out like that. It wasn’t though. The words stuck in his throat.   
  
“You make it sound easy” he rasped 

“It is easy. Just love our children, every single one. Don’t make any of them feel like a reject.”

 _Our_ children. Dorothea’s children. With him. That they created. Together. If he could just agree to love them.   
  
“They’ll be yours, of course I’ll love them” Sylvain said, determined.   
  
“Good. I’ll hold you to that.” Finally, finally she reached for him.   
  
He fell into her embrace, feeling the slightest bit guilty. He wasn’t sure if he truly could open his heart so easily. Sylvain knew he had fewer true friends than most of his peers- Dorothea who didn’t truly count. Felix, absolutely. Mercedes. Ingrid when they weren’t fighting.   
  
He didn’t know how to love his family. He was loyal, sure. He could fake anything out of loyalty to Dorothea.   
  
But to blindly say he’d love any child he had? How could he possibly promise that?   
  


* * *

> My dear Sylvain “I hate Crests but I still value their utility” Gautier, 
> 
> I’m writing this while you are sleeping in my bed in Enbarr. Hopefully I will never send it. I will just work up the courage to tell you, so this letter will be unnecessary. An exercise in honesty, in phrasing the words so we can talk about it face to face.   
>   
> My father was, is, a nobleman in Enbarr. He has the crest of Cichol, as a lot of Adrestians carry Saint’s crests. They’re not tied to one family here the way they are in Faerghus.   
>   
> My mother was a maid. She worked in his household. He took advantage of his position and got her pregnant.   
>   
> When I was born without a crest she was fired. Blackballed from employment anywhere similar. I grew up on the streets with her, and when she died I was alone.   
>   
> If I had a crest, I would have been taken in, legitimized. A noble. A crested noble. Me. Can you imagine?   
>   
> Having a crest is not the only way to ruin a life Sylvain. Not having one is far worse, not that you can see that. 
> 
> You only understand the pain and the pressure of having a crest.   
>   
> 
> 
> I love you, truly, but you have been so hurt that you will never understand what it is like to be so close to that life, and yet not have it.   
>   
> I am not justifying what your brother did to you. That is the fault of your parents. They are the ones who broke you by breaking him.   
>   
> I will not love our crestless children equally. I will love them more. Just as you will love any crested children we have a little more. Because we’ve been hurt. We will both deny this until we die. We should, let’s be good parents. But it will be true nonetheless. I can see that now. I can accept that we will live by this lie.   
>   
> I love you enough to lie.   
>   
> I haven’t agreed to marry you yet. We are not promised. There’s still so much more to discuss. But I have decided that I will. I think I knew that from the moment you arrived in Enbarr.   
>   
> This is not me saying yes. This is not a Faerghus style “We agreed we will, so we are engaged.” This is an Adrestian, “We are both working towards marriage as a goal,”   
>   
> There is still so much work to do.   
>   
> Faithfully Yours,   
> Dorothea.

She slid the letter into one of her notebooks. She wasn’t going to send it. Not yet. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week in Enbarr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some explicit bits in the second part.

There was something melancholy in Dorothea’s performances over the next few nights. She was playing the love interest in the story of a king, her job was to be pretty, to fret, to support. To be beautiful on stage and sing love songs. Mechanically she had to round out harmonies in a story that was unfortunately, overly male. 

Ferdinand gushed about how _wonderful_ Dorothea had been from the first time he saw _Loog_. He was proud of her, proud to call her his friend. 

Backstage after a show on Sylvain’s third night in Enbarr, Ferdinand noted that she was having the performance of her life.  
  


“You think?” Dorothea asked casually, even though she had felt the energy herself. Each time she sung she felt the audience hold their breath, leaning forward to observe her just the tiniest bit closer. The applause tonight was the loudest she’d ever heard in her career.  
  
“Yes! I am ashamed that I have not put it together before now, the maiden is the anxiety of change, personified. Good change, change for the better. She is the future to claim. The way you have been performing this week has truly shined that element of your story, brought it to the forefront. As if you know something is ending, but the future is brighter.”  
  
Dorothea wrote the opera so she was fairly sure it wasn’t intentional… But art really belonged to the audience so who was she to turn down proclamations of her brilliance?  
  
It stuck with her.  
  
Walking home that night Dorothea refused to hold Sylvain’s hand, which was silly- the whole city had probably seen them together at this point. He’d been attached to her hip throughout his time, only leaving her side when she was performing. But holding hands in public felt too intimate.  
  
“I mean you saw me when you came here and you saw me tonight, was I really so different?” She asked  
  
“I am stunned by you always.”  
  
“But were you stunned by me differently?” She laughed at the absurdity of her own question. Silly, fishing for compliments.  
  
“You seemed sad. It’s the show about the dawn of a new age, but you seemed like you were mourning the old one. You weren’t like that the last time I saw you.”  
  
If Dorothea stopped to consider her feelings, a terrible idea, truly, she had no reason to be sad. _Loog_ was a hit sure to recoup its investment. Sylvain was here with her for a few more days. She had friends and a home and an income. Why on earth would she be sad? 

* * *

“After this we’ll have completed the whole house” Sylvain’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he carried Dorothea across the room, her legs wrapped around his waist.  
  
Dorothea lifted her head from where she had been sucking his earlobe, “What?”  
  
“This one, right here. Oh shit keep doing that. Last corner. We’ve honored every other spot” He panted between bites, finally arriving at his destination. Her writing desk, apparently.  
  


Dorothea pinched the flesh between her teeth, “Were you saving this one for something special?” 

He bit back a groan, “No uh… just realized. We’ll need to keep this house forever. It’s special. Not that anyone will want to buy it if they knew how _thoroughly_ we’ve appreciated it.” 

  
Dorothea realized bitterly that Sylvain thought she owned her little house. As if renting had never occurred to him in his entire life- which it probably hadn’t, at least not in the context of anyone he knew. 

  
She bit harder. Stupid thoughts. Not necessary when he was pulling her thighs further apart and they were both naked and there were so many things wrong with Sylvain but this absolutely wasn’t one of them.  
  
He pressed two fingers into her easily, easing some of her tension at the stretch. She gasped sharply, lifting her hips, urging him on. They’d been at this for the better part of an hour and every time she’d gotten close he’d get distracted. Move her, pick her up, ask for something else.  
  
“No, I have a better idea,” he’d claim, stopping her just before she got what she wanted.  
  
It was very fun, but she was ready to kill him.  
  
She moaned softly, trying to urge him on. Dorothea dug her nails into his shoulders, he really did have the _best_ shoulders. Muscular, broad. Easy to press her entire weight into while he refused to give her what she wanted. 

  
“Say please” his words went straight to her center. He kept his slow pace, pushing fingers into her gently. 

“Please what?” Fuck, that shouldn’t work as well as it did. She was used to being the demanding one. She bit his ear again, making him grunt. He always liked when things hurt just a little, she could do that, egg him on.  
  
His fingers curled ever so slightly, not enough, not where she needed them. She let out a frustrated gasp and reached for his wrist, trying to move his hand into place.   
  
Sylvain looked her dead in the eye, chiding “Dorothea, if you want something ask for it nicely”  
  
He hadn’t stopped moving his hand from where it teased. She tried to grind against his palm but he was holding just out of her reach. Asshole, he knew how to touch her, he knew what this was doing to her. His hand left her thigh and pinned her wrist above her head, knocking on the shelf above the desk.  
  
She rolled her hips again, needing something, anything else. Another finger, his fingers to curl just a breath more, anything at all against her clit.  
  
“Don’t make me ask you again” he warned  
  
“What happens then?” she challenged, pulling his hair hard, forcing his head back.  
  
Dorothea whined as he pulled his fingers out of her and pressed them into her mouth. She tasted herself on him, blood pumping faster. He hadn’t broken eye contact. She tried to snake her other hand down and he moved faster than she knew capable and grabbed that wrist too.  
  
Sylvain laughed, kissing her gently up her neck.  
  
“Nothing. At. All.” He punctuated each word with a wet kiss. His breath ghosted her ear, everything held just slightly out of reach.  
  
Dorothea wanted to call his bluff, eyeing just how hard he was, dripping with anticipation. He’d been in this mood all night, she could play along just a bit longer. 

  
“Oh _please_ don’t do that, it would be an awful waste” She crooned  
  
He kissed her hard. Still not touching her. He bit her lip and dragged it between his teeth, holding it in place.  
  
Dorothea’s body couldn’t move, not an inch. Her mouth captured, his hips propping her thighs open, his arms still holding hers still. She made a noise of frustration wanting him to touch her anywhere, anywhere at all.  
  
He released her lip, kissing her harshly again.  
  
“Sylvain I swear just, fuck” She couldn’t form words, every nerve ending begging for touch.  
  
“You know what I need” He teased, bringing his mouth down to her nipple and biting. Dragging the bud between his teeth.  
  
“Fuck, please, just, touch me I’m going to die if you don’t touch me.”  
  
He was on her immediately, dropping his hands to her thighs and _finally_ pushing into her with one strong thrust.  
  
Had she been sound of mind Dorothea would have been embarrassed at how desperately she was moving, how loud she was being.  
  
“Fuck. Fuck, touch me. I can’t…”  
  
He laughed against her breast, speeding up and running his hand up her thigh, pressing his finger against her clit.  
  
“This? Is this what you want?”  
  
She threw her head back, banging it against the desk. There was a reason they hadn’t had sex there yet. She didn’t care.  
  
“Don’t, please don’t stop. Please.” The words tumbled out of her mouth mindlessly. She was squeezing him like a vice. So close. She’d been on edge for so long.  
  
“Okay, okay. Shit, you’re so tight. Fuck, I can feel you,” he continued at his relentless pace, rubbing at her center.  
  
His mouth still biting her breasts, the pain prickling and so good. He licked up her sternum before biting at her neck again.  
  
She felt herself start to coil, arching her back. Too much, not enough.“Right there, keep doing that”  
  
He let out a sharp gasp, throwing his head back, hips speeding up. “You’re amazing, I could- shit- stay here forever. I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just- serios four saints- you Dorothea.” 

  
He hit a perfect spot inside her and she could feel herself start to pulse, moaning with her climax. He was perfect. Her thighs started to shake. He was so perfect. He kept rubbing at her, kept pushing into her, so perfect, so good. 

He grunted into her ear, “Fuck going to… fuck” he pulled out and stroked himself harshly, spilling onto her stomach.  
  
He laid his head on her shoulder, panting. His hair was soaked with sweat.  
  
“Dorothea you’re perfect” he straightened, a shiver going up his spine.  
  
“Yeah, you’ve said” She couldn’t catch her breath, she didn’t trust her legs. She wrapped her arms around him, stroking his hair.  
  
Then, so small she didn’t think she was supposed to hear, he murmured, “Don’t ever, ever leave me” 

* * *

On the sixth day of Sylvain’s visit it occurred to Dorothea that they had never spent this much time together before.  
  
They’d been friendly at the Officers Academy, but Dorothea had joined the Blue Lions only for the last few months of school. She took the Professor’s offer of a transfer when Edelgard started ignoring her for _Monica_ of all people. Which, in hindsight, was more insidious and terrible and good for Dorothea for sensing that something bad was happening. That’s the story she would tell forever, because the truth was Dorothea had merely been jealous.  
  
Silly, a grand conspiracy was happening just behind the scenes, and Dorothea avoided being implicated in it because of a little budding relationship.  
  
Dorothea once kissed the last Emperor of Adrestia in a dorm room in Garreg Mach. No one alive had _that_ claim to fame as far as she knew. 

She and Sylvain had started sleeping together during the war. It was sporadic at first. Dorothea was made a general fairly quickly and refused to fuck anyone she could possibly command on a battlefield. She’d spent too much of her life negotiating power imbalances in her relationships. 

But Sylvain was there and he was attractive and willing. She was sure it wouldn’t ruin their friendship, which was a nice bonus. Men weren’t usually her thing when she was the one choosing, but she could appreciate them from time to time. Dorothea didn’t realize when months passed and she hadn’t slept with anyone else but Sylvain.  
  
They fucked like rabbits because it was the only thing that felt good anymore. Because they were a little bit in love even then but both too broken to admit it. Because when they were laying together sweaty and too exhausted to be guarded anymore they could actually talk about things.  
  
Sylvain could talk about how he wasn’t exactly sure what he’d do after the war because he couldn’t see a future where he lived through it. 

Then he’d get sad, he’d recount when he was reckless, and his crest was the reason he was laying there with her instead of buried out on a battlefield.  
  
“There’s a moment where I realized I missed, and I’m going to hit plate and I’m thinking _well this is it, at least it’s me and not Felix,_ and I’ve accepted it, you know? Then I just **feel** the crest, it just, it’s like the most intense adrenaline rush you’ve ever felt in your life, like there’s three of you at once pushing out of your skin. And the Paladin is laying dead in front of me because I _pierced through his armor_ with my lance. How… How am I supposed to be happy about it? About the thing I hate most in the world being the only reason I’m alive” 

Laying in her bed in Enbarr, Dorothea wondered where had _that_ Sylvain gone? When had he just decided to _go along_ with everything laid before him, make crest babies without complaint? 

“Hey… Hey Dorothea? Do we need to get up?” Sylvain was laying his head on her stomach, reading through some notes Ferdinand had shared. He hadn’t bothered to dress yet this morning. Freckles dotted every inch of his skin, a badge of just how much time they had been spending outside in her garden this week. 

“No. It’s Monday. The Opera is closed today so we’re really of no obligation to do anything.” 

“What do you usually do on Monday’s then?”  
  
“Errands. Sleep. I usually go deliver some things to the orphanage and play with the kids, but not until their schooling is done for the day.” She stroked his hair, curling the longer bits around her fingers. If it got any longer it would start to form ringlets.  
  
Sylvain hummed, reading over his papers. For someone who claimed to hate work, he sure seemed to be doing a lot of it lately. He’d been attending meetings while she was performing. His daily schedule full of Ferdinand and a laundry list of names she vaguely remembered but who were deemed essential to keeping what was once Adrestia running.  
  
“Can I go with you?” He asked, picking up another stack of papers without looking.  
  
“I hoped you would. You’re leaving tomorrow so it would be nice to spend the whole day together.” Her own words shocked her. Right. Tomorrow.  
  
She had let herself get complacent this week. They had slid into cozy domesticity without seeing this time as the vacation it was. The biggest concern was when they cooked terrible meals together and she joked that they’d starve if they got married. He didn’t really understand how to season food and she was a big fan of “throw it all in and hope for the best” which made things edible enough but textures a complete enigma.  
  
They both conveniently ignored that neither of them would be cooking if they actually got married. Because they’d be nobles. And live in a manor with servants. And _expectations._

She’d been ignoring the issue for days. They hadn’t spoken about heirs or crests or marriage since that first morning. Just tea and sex and opera.  
  
“Hey Sylvain, what are you working on?” 

“Nothing important. Bergliez grain production records. I’ve tried to assure Ferdinand that nobody cares too much about who’s ruling as long as they can feed their families.” He sighed and rolled onto his stomach, looking up at her. “Apparently Arundel was running nearly every corner of the Empire from his seat under Edelgard, and he wasn’t exactly planning for his successors. It’s just a headache. Empire nobles usually didn’t live in their own territories so the handful who are still alive and not removed from rule know basically nothing about how to manage their own land.” 

“So they’re useless?”  
  
“Worse than useless. Useless and still collecting taxes. Somehow they all remember how to do **that** ”  
  
“You seem good at this,” she commented. Ferdinand had been gushing as much at dinner the night before. Sylvain was _so smart_ and really understood the _crux of a noble’s duty_. 

“Eh, I’m okay. Nobles manage their own territories in Faerghus, so I’ve been learning this crap since I was a kid. Adrestia is a much richer region with a lot more resources, everyone will be fed, everyone will be fine.”  
  
Dorothea knew just how untrue that was, her work with orphanages telling her just how many people were _not_ fine. Just because there was enough food to go around didn’t mean everyone would get it. Sylvain was smart, he loved her, he was friends with the king. Why wouldn't he just use the influence he had to help? It was exactly like him, a dalliance with governing old Adrestia, over in just a week. 

“You should stay here and help out, you could fix this” 

“What?” 

“Stay here for a while. Help Ferdinand get Adrestia under control. Hell, take over some land here if half of the territories don’t have anyone to run them.” That could actually work, he wouldn’t have to deal with his horrible parents and he could still make the world better.   
  
Sylvain sat up, running his fingers through his hair. “That’s funny Thea”  
  
She darkened, “I’m not kidding”  
  
Sylvain stretched, and Dorothea was suddenly reminded of just how _big_ he was. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, and he kissed her hand gently. He pressed each of her fingers tenderly against his lips, finally biting on her thumb. She felt her heart slow, suddenly calmer at his deliberate motions.  
  
“I know. I'm sorry. You know I can't stay here. I want to fix the situation with Sreng. There's still a war going on, people dying needlessly. I'm going to end it. That’s my goal Thea. I can’t do that from anywhere else but Gautier” 

She wished she was more disappointed. His own land, his own people. There was one thing in the world that he valued above all else, he'd been clear about that.

Of course that was his answer. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


There were a number of orphanages scattered around Enbarr- The city had been one of the last strongholds of the Empire, a battlefield of its own kind long before it was a literal battlefield. 

Dorothea was proud of how quickly she had Mittlefrank up and running, but nothing compared in importance to the children’s homes.  
  
She had made a rotation of several different spots, coming as often as she could with a simple question, “What do you need?”  
  
Everything, pretty much.  
  
The Opera paid enough that she could live far more lavishly than she did, in her cozy one room home. But nearly any gold she earned she spent trying to keep as many kids just like her off the streets, fed, clothed. She’d met Iah because Duscur craftsmen offered far more reasonable prices, and Dorothea found herself buying hundreds of pairs of shoes to help her charges through the winter.  
  
It wasn’t like Dorothea didn’t love comfort or luxury, she absolutely did, but it was hard for her to see children and not think _I marched on your city. I might have killed your parents at Gronder. It doesn’t matter that there’s a lion flying above your head rather than an eagle when you don’t have anywhere to sleep._

Sylvain understood one thing about being poor- food was king. The actual king mattered far less. 

  
As soon as she walked into the main room of the orphanage, Dorothea was pulled to a corner of a large gathering space and began braiding hair. The little girls had glommed onto her, begging for her attention. It was easy work, this church was in a wealthy enough part of town where donations were easily gathered. There just simply weren’t enough adults around to give affection. Dorothea thrived on it.  
  
“Miss Dorothea, are the boys going to hurt your friend?” Asked one of the older girls, hair braided into a ponytail.  
  
Sylvain was running around with some of the boys playing a game with a heavy ball. She’d seen Caspar rope other students into it at Garreg Mach, but didn’t totally understand the rules. Sylvain was going full out, running far faster and laughing as groups of three or more tried to stop him by tackling his legs out from under him.  
  
Sylvain knew how to fall from a warhorse, how to take a hit from a lance or a sword, some ten year olds didn’t pose any real threat.  
  
“He’ll be okay, he’s strong.”  
  
Sylvain took an impressive tumble, rolling halfway across the floor before jumping back up dramatically. He looked over to Dorothea and winked before charging back towards the group of boys. 

The little girls giggled and whispered something Dorothea couldn’t quite make out.  
  
She smiled broadly, “What’s the joke ladies?”  
  
They giggled and one of the little ones asked loudly, “IS HE YOUR BOYFRIEND?” 

Dorothea laughed again, shoulders shaking, “Is romance all you girls think about?”  
  
More giggles. Dorothea finished the complicated crown braid and moved onto the next girl in line. The child stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed Dorothea. “Romance is dumb, I want to talk about Wyverns.”  
  
Dorothea laughed, “Let me tell you about my friend Petra and her Wyvern then”  
  
The afternoon was spent playing, helping to serve dinner, and coaxing the very youngest and cutest of the girls into begging Sylvain to tell everyone a bedtime story. Dorothea could appreciate the irony of _encouraging_ girls to give him attention. He told some scary tale about a witch who lived in the woods in a house made of candy and how two kids outsmarted her for their lives.  
  
Finally, with the dozen or so children asleep in their beds, Sylvain and Dorothea took their leave. 

  
Sylvain looked wrecked. his hair was a mess and his shirt covered in dirt from taking more dramatic falls than she could count. It was shockingly endearing.  
  
Walking out of the orphanage she gave him a quick kiss, “Come on, let’s get you home.”  
  
He sighed, “That is how you spend your time _off_?” 

She laughed, “I do actually. It’s important to me” 

  
“No I can tell. It’s amazing what you’re doing for those kids. Just… Exhausting.” 

She reached for his hand and began leading him home. They were both far too mussed for dinner out.  
  
“Horrible story by the way. You’re lucky every single one of them was in love with you by dinner, because otherwise it might have been traumatizing.”  
  
Sylvain laughed, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, “When they asked the only story I could remember was the little snow girl”  
  
“Snow girl! Faerghus I swear even your _stories_ are made of ice.” She said in mock horror, shivering.  
  
“Well she comes to life because her parents love her so much and want a child so badly but she melts at the end and that felt… inappropriate for the context?”  
  
“Good thought” Dorothea agreed. 

“Mercedes told me _The Witch in The Woods_ , I figured it was from Empire but I guess not.”  
  
Dorothea shrugged, “Most of the stories I know are either from books or from the Opera so… Maybe it is and I missed it,” she took a long look at him, “I’m glad you came today. I want them to have stories and someone to braid their hair and tuck them into bed. I want them to have everything.”  
  
Sylvain squeezed her hand, sighing.  
  
“You really belong here don’t you?” 

That gave Dorothea pause. 

“I made myself belong here Sylvain. Enbarr didn’t want me.”  
  
He cocked his head, leveling her with consideration. Dorothea almost laughed. Sylvain had been wanted so badly, the world had carved out a place for him and accommodated to make room when he chafed and demanded more. He didn’t understand not being wanted, not in the deep scary way. The way that meant you might die and nobody would know. Nobody would care.   
  
“I shouldn’t be making you leave, all you’ve ever wanted was something permanent and you’re creating that for yourself here. You'd have to start over with me, leave all of this.” His features creased, trying to mask some negative emotion he didn’t deem himself worthy to feel.  
  
Dorothea wasn’t sure what to do with him, with this mood. He wanted her, until he started pushing her away. It was his habit, he liked people to lose interest.  
  
“You’re not making me do anything Sylvain. You’re offering me an option, I’m deciding if it’s worth it.” Dorothea’s words were measured, calculated. She loved him, and she tried to save him from the very worst of his self destruction. He didn’t think he was a good person, and in a lot of ways he wasn’t. But damn it, she wanted him to try. 

  
He turned off the main path, heading up the lane to Dorothea's porch. “I hope you do. I can’t blame you if you don’t. You can belong anywhere you want, really. I know you can. But, I want you to choose me,” he looked into her eyes, sad, hopeful.   
  
Dorothea kissed him until she couldn't breathe. Felt him lift her off the ground, arms wrapped so tightly around her waist. 

“Dorothea, I’m about ten seconds from doing some Adrestian style kneeling so if you’re going to say no just please... ” 

Her stomach flipped. He’d done this almost ten times, but right now she almost believed him. Right now she almost wanted to say yes.  
  
“Gautier first.” She reminded, pulling her hands back.  
  
Gauiter first, and whatever horrors awaited her there.

* * *

The next night, after Sylvain mounted his horse and started his journey back home, Dorothea went to her performance.   
  
Sitting on her makeup table was a simple note, written in Sylvain's tight script: 

> Dorothea,
> 
> I love you. Please marry me.   
>   
> Faithfully yours, 
> 
> Sylvain 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No letter in this chapter- hope you'll take smut instead. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain returns home, and wishes he hadn't.

Sylvain usually believed the universe had it out for him. He certainly gave the universe a helping hand in his own destruction, but, still. He was born under a deceptively cursed star. All of the talent in the world, but no work ethic to accomplish anything. A wealthy crested noble, whose family made it very hard to care about their legacy. A magnetic personality, handsome face perfect for attracting the attention of others but a deep, disgusting hatred for anyone who wanted to be with him. Anything good came with a catch. Always had.  
  
But as he rode his way across the country from Enbarr to Gauter he held hope that one perfect thing could slide into place.  
  
Dorothea was going to come visit him once _Loog_ closed- she’d arrive, most likely, the middle of Garland Moon. Also known as the only moon of the year Gautier’s weather was nice.  
  
A romantic month, his birthday month.  
  


He was willing to, just for a moment, pretend he was an optimist. He rarely let himself hope, it had never done much for him in the past. But a week in Enbarr seeing the pieces of a fractured country fall into place, Dorothea saying that she loved him, getting to spend a week appreciating art and sex and politics with a lance nowhere in sight. He was downright happy. 

The optimism faded into dread as he approached Gautier. In another time he would have stopped in Fhirdiad to report on Enbarr and old Adrestia to Dimitri. He would have stayed a few days in Fraldarius to annoy Felix and Annette and their newlywed bliss.  
  
But he was absent for nearly a whole moon by the time he returned and whatever tentative private ceasefire he had made with Sreng was surely on its last legs.  
  
He and Seb, his Sreng General, had worked out a system of hiding places for notes. Only for desperate situations, only to be used once every few moons to arrange a check-in, or when bloodshed broke out. All correspondence to be burned immediately after reading.  
  
All his ability to hope was on Dorothea at the moment, so he was absolutely sure the situation with Sreng would require his immediate attention. How many dead? Had he been found out? Had Seb? Would their little trust hold? 

  
Sylvain’s arrival was anticlimactic. At every noise on the road he assumed he’d see regiments marching up to the border, but he was shockingly alone. The snows that covered Gautier for most of the year had thawed in his absence, turning the road into a muddy mess. He’d need a bath, his horse would need a bath, his clothes and rucksack probably would be better off burned at this point. Disgusting.  
  
Finally, after a week of travel, he crested the last hill. Gautier manor was a huge stone house, tucked into a mountainside, burgundy flags with the Gautier crest dotted the landscape. As if anyone could forget which asshole decided to settle the most frigid corner of the country a millennium ago.  
  
He apologized for tracking in mud, intending to run straight to a bath and to give a gift to the laundress for the hell he was about to dump into her lap.  
  
The steward walked alongside Sylvain, keeping pace despite his advanced age. He informed Sylvain that his mother was visiting Fhirdiad, her niece had a child while he was gone. Sylvain idly scratched his beard at this news, his face was safe for the moment with her absence.  
  
Then the steward noted slyly, “Nine moons after the end of the war… It’s going to be a busy season for midwives, let me tell you.” 

Sylvain laughed. Nine moons… They were coming up on the anniversary of the liberation of Fhirdiad this month as well. What a difference a year makes.  
  


The Steward sighed as they reached the top of the stairs, “Your father will want to see you promptly. No delays.”  
  
Sylvain grinned viciously, knowing he smelled foul and looked worse, “Well I’ve been riding for a week straight so I guess that’s his funeral” and bounded towards his Father’s office.  
  
The Margrave’s office was imposing, packed tightly with sealed letters and maps of every region of Fodlan. It lacked for anything soft, a thin spun rug, chairs hard and uncomfortable. The only decor were panels adorned in woodcarvings depicting battles long before either of their lifetimes. The Gautiers had held this land since the time of the Elites. “Our blood built this, our blood keeps it whole.”  
  
Sylvain knocked loudly, annoyed to be summoned so quickly. He chanted _not Sreng, not Sreng, not Sreng_ in his head until his father’s loud voice boomed “Enter”  
  
Sylvain bowed slightly, out of a respect imprinted since birth, “I’ve returned from Enbarr.”  
  
“I can see that.” 

Sylvain stood silently while his father studied his disheveled appearance. He was dirty from the road, desperately in need of a haircut. He was in the midst of his best collective mood in six years for the past month, but it all faded under the piercing gaze. It made him feel like a child again, terrified of what would come next. If history told him anything, being called to the Margrave’s study never ended well. Anything at all could lead to punishment- failure corrected harshly, success punished privately by Miklan’s hand.  
  


“Missives from Enbarr claimed you provided good council”  
  
Sylvain nodded, “Most of their lower nobility existed for no purpose other than owning land. Those with actual responsibilities were largely stripped of their titles by either Edelgard or in the aftermath of the war. They lack capable statesmen as we lack warm weather.”  
  
“They’ll have to make due.” 

“I agree.” 

His father studied him again, silently working through a thought. Sylvain dropped his eyes to the floor instinctively- he hated looking at his father. Sylvain knew there was a strong family resemblance. Same unruly red hair, same face shape, same eye color. But his father had a cruel intensity that Sylvain tried to keep under wraps in himself. His father was notably shrewd, he had eyes everywhere and was skilled at picking things apart.  
  
When Sylvain began to show promise, when his tutors complimented him as being _just as clever as his father_ he shut down.  
  
Sylvain still wasn’t sure who he wanted to be, but he sure as hell didn’t want to be his father. His crest and his face were quite enough to share.  
  
Dorothea acted like he could just decide to not be his father’s son. Like it was that simple. 

“You did not bring that woman back with you?”  
  
“Dorothea, no she has commitments in Enbarr. She will arrive during Garland Moon when they are over.”  
  
His father frowned “I have heard that she was fairly… open about her intention to marry into the nobility. Yet you are not her priority?”  
  
Sylvain sighed. He should have known his father would have dug up information on Dorothea, it’s what he did.  
  
“She’s quite devoted to her opera company and will not leave them in the middle of a season while they are in need of her skills,” Sylvain took a breath, silently apologizing to Dorothea about the next part, “She’s agreed to retire if we marry, so you don’t need to be concerned about that. I’ve handled it.”  
  
The Margrave’s eyebrow raised, the most indication of approval Sylvain was going to get. It felt disgusting to discuss this, to have to anticipate his questions. _Yes Yes Yes, Dorothea is just as complacent and malleable as myself._  
  
“And what of her crest?”  
  
Sylvain muffled his shocked laugh, “Surely you mean _my_ crest? She, as you well know, is a commoner. She has no crest. She and I have discussed Gautier’s emphasis on crested heirs, she understands the importance.”  
  
Maybe his informants in Enbarr weren’t as good as those in the Kingdom. Maybe he was getting soft, or confused in his old age. What the hell was he talking about? Dorothea absolutely, positively, did not have a crest.  
  
The Margrave’s eyes became unreadable, knowing. Something about his face made Sylvain’s stomach turn with anxiety. “Yes, forgive me. I misspoke. I am rather distracted by your untidiness.”  
  
Sylvain fumed, “I can assure you she does not have a crest.”  
  
“You are correct.” His father confirmed, falling into another thoughtful silence.  
  
Sylvain stood silently, balling his hands into fists. He had prayed it wasn’t about Sreng. He would have taken war over whatever mood his father was in- this smug assurance that Sylvain always knew meant trouble in his future. Was he just fucking with him? His father didn’t sneeze if it didn’t serve a purpose. 

  
_Just dismiss me asshole. There’s nothing else to talk about. If something was wrong you would have led with it. You’d be yelling by now._  
  
“There have been no insurgents from Sreng in your absence, even with the warming weather. We should be prepared, they tend to attack as the snows melt. I expect you to be patrolling within the week.”  
  
Sylvain nodded, hoping that his father would lose interest and dismiss him if he said nothing at all. Just a projection, just a soft, malleable clay in his own image- existing solely for the joy of continuing his own agenda. Sylvain needed to go back to Sreng as soon as possible anyway- this was fine. He could do this.  
  
Just as he let himself feel relief that somehow he was pulling off everything he wanted to do his father sighed, “And shave your face before your mother arrives. That is a direct order. I cannot hear about it any longer.” 

  
Sylvain couldn’t help himself. It was his face, this insistence on controlling every bit of his life had always been part of the package of being who he was, but it was just his face. It wasn’t important at all. 

Frustrated, he snipped, “She wasn’t nearly as incensed over my scandal with Gwendal’s daughter as she is over a _beard_. You know that’s absurd right?”  
  
“Miss Gwendal was many years your senior and should have had better judgement. It reflected more poorly on her than you.”  
  
Sylvain nodded absentmindedly, unsure that was true. He’d lost his virginity to Nelly Gwendal at a ball when he was fifteen. Nearly everyone in attendance, apparently, heard them going at it when the orchestra stopped for the host to give a speech. It was a diplomatic mess. Gwendal threatened to kill him. Rowe threatened to stop trade with Gautier and their most closely tied houses. Ingrid got roped in as the unfortunate person who introduced them and smoothed it over by offering one of her older brothers up because her family was so poor and overloaded with children that a second son of Galetea could settle for a woman wrapped up in scandal.  
  
He’d ruined entire lives. It was the best thing that ever happened to him. It gave him a reputation. The whole kingdom thought he was a skirt chaser from the time he was very young, which should have made him dangerous and untouchable but in reality gave women permission to approach him- they came with expectations that he was more than happy to live up to. He’d always been flirtatious but that made him a real fuck up.  
  
He’d caused a countrywide scandal in his teens. A year later he was injured so badly the healers weren’t sure he would walk again. He’d fought and nearly died in a war a thousand times over.  
  
None of those things ever got more than a passing scold from his mother who’d always been content to ignore him as long as he wasn’t embarrassing her directly. _Be careful, be discrete, don’t bring shame to this house, you’re going to be the Margrave one day- act like it_. 

This, this tiny thing that meant that he didn’t have to stare at his own father’s face in the mirror every day. This was the hill she was choosing to fight and die on.  
  
“Shave. Sreng. You’re dismissed” His father flicked his hand towards the door.  
  
Sylvain didn’t need to be told twice, he gave another short bow and backed out of the room. 

As the door closed he let out a whoosh of breath. The fuck was that? 

* * *

> My Dearest Sylvain,  
>   
> I am embarrassed by how I keep turning around in the house and expecting you to be there. It’s disconcerting. I’ve lived here nearly a year, you stayed with me a week, and now it feels empty at your absence.  
>   
> 
> 
> The Opera is going as well as ever. I’m working on the next piece which will have to go on without me as I’ve promised this insane man that I’d travel to a frigid glorified military stronghold and stay with him for a few weeks.  
>   
> It will be fine, of course. Better than fine, I’m learning a thing or two from my experiences composing _Loog_ and the handful of projects we did at Garreg Mach. I feel pressure to improve upon what we just performed.  
>   
> I’m working on a story of a man who has the curse where he can take on the burdens of others. He can feel the pain of anyone, and survive. He calls it a blessing. He won’t live his own life, he can’t even talk to the woman he loves because he’s so wrapped up in fixing problems for everyone else.  
>   
> It’s a comedy in the theatrical sense. My pianist (you remember her) is doing the orchestrations and has called me a heretic on several occasions because I am writing a romantic lead as a baritone.  
>   
> It’s for Iah of course, the man has a gift and I refuse to let him squander it. 
> 
>   
> Speaking of the opera you do know people are in and out of my dressing room constantly? I hope your note was intended to be public. Because it was certainly consumed by it.  
>   
> There’s gossip about us. Not the regular sexy gossip because you know… getting walked in on is really inevitable in an opera house. Scary gossip. About me leaving permanently. About what comes next. About how I’ve really not changed at all- I’ve always wanted to marry into wealth and just as I’ve reached success with the newly reopened company, getting commendations for my writing, doing so much more than being a Diva while still being a really excellent Songstress, I’m going to end it all for status or security. Maybe love. Nobody is all that concerned with the last one.  
>   
> It is just so frustrating because it’s true isn’t it? My career has really taken off and while it’s always so romantic in theory for a great artist to leave at the height of her career for love the reality is far more complex.  
>   
> Please do not take that as me not loving you. But if you want to know the real me, that’s the real me. I’m selfish. I want. I want everything, you and Mittlefrank together when they are diametrically opposed.  
>   
> This is why I haven’t said yes. I will come visit you in Gautier because I love you and even now it is painful to lose you. I just- this is complicated for me. Far more than it has the right to be.  
>   
> I know that my career as a songstress will be over in a year or two, I will simply age out. I found my first gray hair the other day. This is smart, this is strategic. 
> 
>   
> But I can write, I can manage the company. I don’t need you to have a good life.  
>   
> I don’t want to lose you either.  
>   
> Having you, and then not having you, has made that abundantly clear.  
>   
> Faithfully Yours,  
> Dorothea 

* * *

Sylvain, for the first time ever, tore up Dorothea’s letter.  
  
He couldn’t bear to look at it again. He was torturing himself, reading it over and over and reminding himself he had messed everything up, that even if someone could love him they would never be able to love everything about him. Who he was attracted women, who he was would push Dorothea away. 

He kept the ripped parchment with her other letters. It still felt wrong to get rid of something she created. 

* * *

  
The stupid river was freezing.  
  
It was good cover, he could claim that he went fishing or on a walk or thought he saw something. The current wasn’t too fast in this lazy bend. It wasn’t difficult for Sylvain to take off his boots and walk _through_ the river to his meeting place. His footsteps would lead into the river and out, hundreds of paces from where Seb would do the same thing. No one would notice. If they were lucky it would rain and wash away their footprints by morning.  
  
It was an insane plan. It would probably work. There was no alternative if it didn’t.  
  
Seb’s note, tucked into a hollowed out egg in a tree on the Fodlan side of the river simply had a date listed, and a squiggly line.  
  
Sylvain had responded in kind, same strategy.  
  
They’d worked out the system during a blizzard. The meeting was made after a truly suicidal skirmish where Seb had been swinging at him with his axe and tucked the note into his saddle. Who _DID_ that?  
  


Seb. With his scruffy beard and his thick eyelashes and huge hands that made Sylvain have the little beginnings of a crush even though, no, he was faithful to Dorothea and no, this was a visionary on the other side of the river who saw the conflict as just as pointless as it truly was.  
  
Srengi military did not have the same kind of structure as Fodlan. Seb, as an unproven leader, would have command over this area for the next few years. If he could hold the border as it stood he would be their next leader. If he could gain land, he’d be a legend.  
  
“It is pointless. This land is worthless and we all know it. We hold it for pride, and I’ve had too much of pride in my life.” He’d explained simply, when Sylvain had questioned his motives.  
  
Seb was a strategist more than a revolutionary. If both sides could leave the land alone they’d have no conflict at all, fewer deaths, more strong men and women to deal with problems closer to home. If they could leave things alone. 

Sylvain spotted movement ahead, and took one deep breath before he confirmed it was in fact Seb. Alone, unarmed but for one small scimitar. Srengi favored the axe, this was a sign of good intention.  
  
A bend in the river, both of them hiding in dense reeds, Sylvain moved slowly but loudly as he approached.  
  
“You look well” Sylvain said simply.  
  
“You look unlike your countrymen. Are you planning on joining with us after this, son of my enemy? Your red hair will unfortunately out you as a southlander” 

  
Sylvain liked the idea of this, truly. Sreng culture was far more loose than Fodlan from what he read in books, but he shrugged sheepishly “If we want this to go well we should not give my people a chance to invade so I’m afraid I’ll have to stay on the Fodlan side for now.” 

“Probably for the best, those who follow the Wind Caller would consider you cursed with that weapon of yours”  
  
He nodded his head to the side in casual agreement. Seb really had no clue how much of a curse the lance was.  
  
“Our patrols are working, though I worry that as the weather warms I will have young fighters looking to cut their teeth. Have you a solution to this?” Seb asked.  
  
Sylvain nodded happily, he’d been thinking about this for weeks, “You’ll think I’m insane”  
  
“We have both walked barefoot in a river to meet with the future leader of our sworn enemy. I already think you are insane.” 

Sylvain knew that rebuilding Fodlan was far more of a priority, and that even Gautier was running on a skeleton crew of scouts and battalions. Even his father secretly wanted the peace to last.  
  
“My knights, as you know, are some of the fastest in the world on horseback. Yours are far better at discrete tactics, surprise attacks.”  
  
Seb’s mouth turned up in thoughtful agreement, allowing Sylvain to continue.  
  
“All of our fighters are well aware of these differences and wish to have the upper hand. Frame it as training. I tell my knights that they should patrol at night. Try to leave no trace. And your fighters should try to move quickly, a far distance out in daylight but ready to pounce.”  
  
Seb’s smile was fantastic, perfectly crinkled eyes and dimples right on the corners of his mouth that showed even under his beard.   
  
“I like this. If my men are visible they will think they are scaring you southlanders off. If we still keep to a schedule so no one is out at the same time, this may work. We are worried you have been too quiet, so we will need a solution to that problem. I am thinking of having my men fight against each other, a small tournament at camp. They can earn honor amongst their peers, but will be too tired to go looking for another fight. If the border becomes boring, they may demand other placements.” 

“A tournament is a smart idea, I may steal that.”  
  
“You are welcome to. We should both acknowledge that this peace will not last forever, we may need to decide when we shall fight.”  
  
Sylvain swallowed. He knew it too. If his father thought Sreng had retreated past the border he would insist on claiming the fallow land on the other side of the river, despite it’s worthlessness. Despite the fact it would lead to another war that Faerghus was not ready for. They were fighting for pride.  
  
Seb let his point land and suggested “We should wait for the rainy season if possible. If we are all too miserable and wet to fight well, we will be able to declare a stalemate at a small skirmish rather than one battle in an ongoing conflict. We should pick one day to overlap, we will both call our troops back quickly. Small groups so each thinks the other was simply a scouting party.”  
  
Sylvain agreed and helped him set a date. The first rain in the third week of Blue Sea Moon. They wrote nothing down, but used a pattern to decide who would be patrolling when. If all went well they could go another two moons until meeting again. Schedules set, they shook hands and began to turn towards their own land.  
  
Seb stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. 

  
“We are both on the cusp of leadership. I will be made leader in two years time if our plan holds. What of you?” He asked.  
  
Leadership meant the authority to negotiate out in the open. To stop these clandestine meetings and endless fights.  
  
Sylvain sighed, “I don’t really know. I am much closer than I was, my conditions for succession are more complicated.”  
  
Seb leveled a look- he was much older than Sylvain, ten years at least though Sylvain had never asked. But their countries worked so differently. By Sreng standards, he’d be well on his way to leadership with his military success.  
  
“How do you not know when you will lead? I risked this because I thought you were the leader, the older red man left and a young one replaced him. This happens every generation. If things get bad, a blonde man with terrible strength will join and likely kill me. This too happens every generation. I do not want to die here, but there is nothing to gain if this is not a long term arrangement.”  
  
“It is. I… Titles are passed through families. I will not be made leader until I have a son. That’s how you have your endless line of redheaded enemies.” Not the whole truth but crests in general were abhorrent to Sreng. It made sense, their most hated and famous enemies carried them.  
  
“So have a son. I have three. It is fun to make them, they are good to have around.” Seb said matter of factly.  
  
“I’m not married.”  
  
“Get married. You’ve proven yourself in battle, you are handsome. This should not be hard for you. ”  
  
“Now you sound like my parents.”  
  
“Caller forbid. Your parents are my enemies. You are my ally.”  
  
Sylvain smiled again, “You are my ally as well.”  
  
“If it would get peace my wife’s sister is coming of age, she’s a terror. She’d like you. And Sreng would be safer for her absence,” Seb joked  
  


Sylvain laughed, “I have someone in mind, but I appreciate your offer.”  
  
Levity, with a Sreng general, as he lived and breathed.  
  
“I shall hold to our schedule as long as you do. We shall discuss after our skirmish.”  
  
“Agreed. Be well Seb” 

“And you Sylvain” 

* * *

Two weeks passed before Sylvain was able to sleep, confident that he had not been found out. The thought lingered in the back of his mind, every word his father said made him jump a foot. But he rode back and forth to the border, and things remained calm.  
  
His father seemed skeptically assured that things would hold for now. That they had really beaten them back in the winter, that the Srengi were still licking their wounds.  
  
He liked the idea of a tournament to keep those stationed up north entertained, the Margrave offered to foot a cash prize for the victor. Even better, they’d be incentivized to keep training and rest when not patrolling. No one would be taking on extra shifts when there was money on the line.  
  
His mother’s return ushered in a whole new set of problems.  
  


Namely, the realization of exactly what he was setting Dorothea up for. Dorothea who thrived on attention and approval. Who wanted nothing but to feel safe and like she belonged, and was making the world better not worse.  
  
There would be nothing for her in Gautier.  
  
His days continued mechanically. Train, assess the territory, correspondence. Up to the border, back to Gautier. Bite his tongue. Smile. Agree. Repeat.  
  
Sylvain shave. Sylvain get married. Sylvain where is she? Sylvain we will not wait forever for this unworthy woman to show herself. Sylvain do everything we’ve ever asked of you. Sylvain you are the problem. Sylvain you are a disgrace. Sylvain if you want to be a commoner, go be a commoner, we’ll have none of that here. Sylvain you are the future of this house.  
  
Finally, finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He was holding the border. He was actively seeking marriage. He was ready to subject another child to this torturous life and existence and hold his family name and be the next _Margrave of fucking Gautier_. 

  
On the eve of his 27th birthday he snapped.  
  


Sylvain went into his washroom and grabbed his razor. He held it in his hand, forlornly. Let the metal heat with the warmth of his body.  
  
He took one last look in the mirror, holding in his scream. It wouldn’t help. He was held hostage by his family. By his land. By Sreng.  
  
What use was identity? Pretending he could be different?  
  
He could be different after he inherited.  
  
He shaved, moons of independence falling to the floor in tufts.  
  
Looking back in the mirror, the deed done, he felt sick.  
  
He looked just like his father in one of his first memories. His mind could picture it perfectly.  
  
He was about five years old, and went running to his father’s office. He interrupted a meeting, crying through a newly forming black eye.  
  
His father looked at him coldly, scooped him up, and carried him out of the room. He didn’t care how it happened. “If you don’t like pain, don’t let him hit you. You’ve disgraced yourself in front of some of the men who you will someday oversee, do not let that happen again. This is not Miklan’s fault, it’s yours for letting it happen.”  
  
Sylvain, no longer five, laid on the floor of the washroom letting the cold seep into his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorothea returns, next time!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorothea goes to Gautier

Dorothea approached Gautier with a mix of excitement and dread. She’d spent the past month with her head down, performing, composing. Not thinking about Sylvain unless she was writing letters. Not turning around at every pass of wind, or reaching across the bed when she was cold at night, or singing through a lyric out loud as if there might be an answer. She wouldn’t let herself be overwhelmed with the disappointment that he wasn’t there. She tried to build up her defenses, knowing that her visit to Gautier may very well end with her leaving him forever.  
  
Or maybe him leaving her, a sick suspicion told her that if his parents decided she was unsuitable he’d listen. It wasn’t generous. It was still probably true. 

A perverse fantasy had that exact scenario play out. A dramatic finale where Sylvain runs away with her, coming to Enbarr. He has a career in politics, she gets to continue composing for the Opera, they can have or not have as many children as they want and it doesn’t matter not one bit if they have crests. They don’t even test them. One of them finds out as an adult accidently because they never truly learned how to fight.  
  
She intellectually understood that it was selfish to want that. There’s a never ending war in Gautier, and Sylvain has devoted himself to ending it. She respects it, she supports him enough to be willing to give up her entire life to make it happen. But she can’t help but dream of a different world.  
  
Entering through the sturdy wooden doors into the manor house, just as cold and imposing as she pictured, her eyes fell to Sylvain. Her chest tightened and she controlled herself from breaking out into a full run despite propriety, but she froze in place once her eyes really took him in. 

  
His face was clean shaven. A terrible disappointment really, not that he’s not handsome like this, and his beard had been getting a little overgrown by the time he left Enbarr, but he looked so rakish and dashing with it that she couldn’t help but mourn its loss.  
  
The joke she was ready to make about his face died on her lips when she took in the look in his eye. Sylvain’s letters were tepid over the past months. Light on detail and flirtation. Scandalously few nude portraits. She could tell something was wrong, but nothing added up. She originally assumed his mood was due to his Sreng deal falling through, but couldn’t really ask about it in writing. But he wasn’t talking about constant fighting either. He’d been desperate for her to write, sending letters via the faster (and far more expensive) Pegasus post, and including money in each letter for her quick reply. It just all seemed strange from halfway across the country.  
  
Seeing him, it clicked into place. He looked forlorn. Exhausted with dark circles shadowing his face. Depressed. In the very Sylvain way where his smile is wide and his posture relaxed, but there’s anger roiling under the surface. 

When she pictured their reunion in her mind she imagined it would be a happy one. Not… Standing stock still in the grand foyer of his absolutely terrible family home.  
  
“I’m so happy you’re here” he greeted with a measured calm, across the room from her.  
  
What on earth had this place done to him? 

“I am too, truly.” She moved towards him and pulled him into a hug. Faerghus be damned, people need to be touched.  
  
His body warmed at her touch, and after a moment he squeezed her back. He whispered into her ear “You are a sight for very sore eyes,” his voice cracking and he kissed the top of her head gently, mussing her hair but she’s been riding for the better part of the day so there’s not much left to do.  
  
“Shall I help Miss Arnault to her room?” An older man appeared suddenly, dressed in fine clothing.  
  
“No, I can do it. She’s my guest.” Sylvain offered, grabbing for her large bag.  
  
“You should not enter the lady’s bedroom, if you need reminding,” His words were firm, but his tone lighter than she expected, not judgemental but almost playful. As if he knows that probably won’t happen, and doesn’t really care.  
  
“Eh you’re no fun. We’ll be fine. Very proper.” Sylvain waved him off and bounded up the stairs.  
  
Dorothea followed, somewhat shakily. She’d been riding, she needed to freshen up. Her room sounded nice but the house was imposing with long dark hallways. She’d get lost, she was sure of it.  
  
Dorothea thought back to the noble houses she’d been inside in the past. None were as stark as Gauiter. Almost no decoration other than weapons and a few portraits of angry looking men on the walls. 

She followed Sylvain through the twists, up another flight of stairs, and arrived, finally, at her room.  
  
“This one’s yours for the time being, uh, it has a sitting room attached so we can talk… Wow it’s good that you’re here.” Sylvain pushed the door open to reveal a cozy room, with wooden furniture centered on a fireplace and a small window that let in a view of the mountains. Some were still snowcapped much to her displeasure.   
  
“Thank you, this is actually really nice.” Dorothea offered sweetly. Sylvain lit up at her compliment, and shut the door behind them.  
  
She was used to handling men carefully, but not Sylvain. Even so, she had the sneaking suspicion she should use kid gloves. Finally alone, she wrapped her arms around him, tucking her face into his chest. He still smelled the same, citrusy with a little bit of sweat that she really couldn’t help but love and miss. Her pillows had stopped smelling like him a week after he left. 

Heart full, she heard herself say, “Please, we can’t be apart this long ever again. I’d go crazy.”  
  
He shifted around her, tucking his head into her hair. “Yeah… Yeah we really shouldn’t.”  
  
She felt him swallow, as if he wanted to say something else.  
  
She pulled back enough to look at his face, running her thumb over his cheek. “You wanted to surprise me?”  
  
He frowned miserably, the bags under his eyes even darker as he turned his head away from her “Please don’t ask.”  
  
She clicked her tongue softly, “I know. But I like your freckles, I had forgotten about them.” She reached a soft hand up to his face, turning his head to better appreciate the pattern of freckles that were starting to form.   
  
He laughed, tension breaking a little, “My whole body is still covered in them you know,” he flirted.  
  
“You’ll have to remind me” she pressed gently, feeling them slide back into rhythm. Familiar territory. Fun territory.

“I can make that happen,” he looked around, as if he didn’t trust her room, “Yeah not here. But we’ll get creative.”  
  
“I’m very creative Sylvain” She smiled brightly.  
  
His arms wrapped around her tighter squeezing almost to the point of pain. It felt good.  
  
She reached up and laced her fingers into his hair, still shaggy though no longer curling freely. Pulling gently, she tilted his head and kissed him.  
  
Kissing Sylvain felt like entering a warm inn on a snowy day. It was invigorating, made her excited for what came next. She missed him, having him in front of her clarified just how much he felt like a missing limb. His lips and teeth and tongue were lighting her on fire, hands gently brushing at her neck.  
  
He pulled away, panting for breath. “Well that’s a greeting.”  
  


Dorothea blushed, pulling her hair back into place, “More greeting later I think. But I’m a mess and should remedy that before anything else.”  
  
Sylvain’s eyes ran up the length of her. The hem of her dress was muddy. She’d been riding since the morning and absolutely smelled like her horse. But even so, his eyes were hungry, his hands grasping at her waist.  
  
“I suppose I can let go of you for the length of a bath.”  
  
“You could join me” she offered quietly, hopeful, knowing his answer.  
  
Sylvain turned and glanced towards the door.  
  
“Eh… Probably shouldn’t.”  
  
She tried not to be disappointed.  
  
“That’s fine. I’m sure you’re busy.”  
  
“I’m not I just… You know. Faerghus repression and all that. Not really protocol for unmarried couples to have baths together.” He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable with his own forced chastity.  
  
“You sauna together naked with your friends” Dorothea said blankly.   
  
“Yeah but that’s not sexual. You are, I am, well… I don’t trust us, do you?”  
  
She smiled again. “I trust you with my life, but no, I suppose you’re right. Shame.”  
  
She turned towards the only other door, assuming she could find her way to the washroom.  
  
A moment passed as she stood in the sleeping chamber looking for the washroom, it was far bigger than any room she’d ever slept in in her life, and she couldn’t find the stupid door.  
  


Sylvain entered, sheepishly.  
  
“I realized I should show you the washroom, hidden doors and all. Very fancy architecture in this place you know. The woodwork is really important in art history” he walked over to a wall that she now realized had a panel, and pushed open the door.  
  
He paused for a moment as Dorothea walked through, his hand guiding her by the small of her back.  
  
“Hey… Baths might work differently here. Maybe I should show you, you know, be a good host?”  
  
Dorothea turned to look at him. His eyes were bright and his mouth was curved up in mischief. He winked, and just like that for the first moment since her arrival he looked normal. The normal of when she was around. One could even call him happy.  
  
“I’m worried the water might be cold since it’s from the mountains. I hate being cold in a bath. Any solutions to my problem, excellent host Sylvain?” Dorothea looked pointedly towards the tub in the center of the room.  
  
His eyes met hers and looked over to the tub. He laughed, excited, pulling off his shirt, “Yeah, I can think of something”

* * *

Dorothea was comfortable with nerves. She’d been performing for crowds for most of her life, and as a Songstress she had only one chance to make a good impression.  
  
She lived and died on being appealing, on making people love her. First impressions never shook her resolve.  
  
Yet, walking into dinner with Sylvain’s parents felt just as ominous as walking onto a battlefield. 

Sylvain had suggested she dress up, so she armored up with a gown Bernadetta had sewn for her to stave off a panic attack before a certification exam and the few pieces of jewelry she owned that weren’t costume. Her makeup was subdued by her standards, modeled after the natural styles favored by Mercedes and Annette.  
  
Sylvain met her at her room and led her with a held hand. He had left her to dress earlier, begging off some errand that simply could not wait, but left her this afternoon far more relaxed and energized than the shell he had been that morning. The happiness lingered even now.  
  
Dorothea had always loved to be loved, but the marked improvement in his mood, hours after leaving her, made her feel sickeningly fond. They were so much better together. 

  
Sylvain’s seat at his parent’s table was further than respectful distance, skipping a half a dozen empty seats on the left side of the table. He pulled out her seat, but pushed her in only half way. A signal, they’d have to rise when his parents entered.  
  
Serios. Full formal nobility rules it was then. For a family dinner. Felix’s wedding feast hadn’t been so stuffy. 

They sat in anticipation, Dorothea holding his hand like she was putting pressure on a wound.  
  
“You okay?” He asked softly, brushing some hair from her face.  
  
The casual touch calmed her.  
  
“Anything less than hating me is the goal, correct?” she confirmed. Reasonable goals. Small hopes. 

  
He snorted, “Pretty much. You’re amazing, you don’t have anything to prove. Just… don’t start a war”  
  
She half smiled, “I think your father might approve of me more if I do” 

Sylvain shrugged, “Yeah probably.”  
  
The Margrave and Margravine entered together. Dorothea and Sylvain rose, waiting until their elders took their seats.  
  
She’d never seen his mother before, she was unusually tall for a woman, almost as tall as her husband. She had auburn hair pulled into a severe style on top of her head. Her dress was probably worth more than Dorothea’s whole wardrobe. Her face was almost plain, wide features on a very square face. It didn’t matter, the rest of her was so striking.  
  
Servants came around to pour drinks. Dorothea wasn’t sure what to expect, but the silence was killing her. _Don’t speak first, it’s rude_ she reminded herself mentally.  
  
The Margrave didn’t even deign to look at her as he noted, “Well she finally arrives.”  
  
Sylvain spoke first, “Yes, all the way from Enbarr. Father, Mother, this is Miss Dorothea Arnault. Dorothea, these are my parents, the Margave and Margravine Gautier.”  
  
He couldn’t even introduce his parents by their first names. Titles only.   
  
Dorothea calmed her heart for a moment before politely adding, “It is very nice to meet you. I am honored you are hosting me, thank you for your hospitality.” 

His mother seemed pleased enough, finally looking over at her.  
  
“We are eager to meet you as well Miss Arnault. Please, I hope your journey from Enbarr was comfortable.”  
  
The Margrave was still silent. It was so strange to see Sylvain’s face with such stoicism.  
  
“It was, thank you. All travel seems easy after military travel.” Dorothea noted, hoping a reference to her military service for their dear country might help break the ice.  
  
“Yes you were in the Kingdom army weren’t you? How fascinating. How does one go from songstress to enemy general?” Even at a distance, her low voice carried.  
  
Dorothea laughed elegantly, “It’s a long story truly, I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested.”  
  
His mother took a sip of her wine, playing out the script, “When a guest visits a home in Faerghus they are obligated to tell their story, given my son’s interest in you, I’d love to hear yours.”  
  
Dorothea knew a command when she heard one. She was used to playing these games in Enbarr.

“Well please, I don’t wish to dishonor your hospitality. I was a Songstress in the Middlefrank Opera company from the time I was young. There is an Opera, I don’t know if you’re familiar, Enchanted Pipes,”  
  
“I’ve heard of it, it’s a romance. I’m more acquainted with longer, more epic operas” His mother responded. Faerghans and their five act funeral dirges they called opera.   
  
“There is a part traditionally played by a child, a fairy creature. There is a song where the angered creature lights a forest on fire and my director decided that he wanted me to cast real magic for the scene rather than use some other effect. Since, per his thought, anyone with half a mind and a pulse can learn a basic fire spell.” 

The Margrave snorted, the first acknowledgement of something she said all evening.  
  
“I began meeting with a young man to learn, and he was so impressed with my progress that he continued to work with me even after it was over. We only stopped working together when he himself attended the Officers Academy, and I’ve always been a bit ambitious so I thought if he could do it so could I. I eventually did gain acceptance to Garreg Mach. I transferred to the Blue Lions class about halfway through the year as I felt myself plateauing in my progress in my original class. I left Adrestia shortly after the war broke out, helping the community around the monastery after its destruction. Based on the friendships and loyalties I formed as a Blue Lion it was only natural that I was commissioned as a general in the Kingdom army when Garreg Mach was reestablished as a stronghold.”  
  
The Margravine nodded, as if she was accepting her story.  
  
“And how did you end up at Garreg Mach? In my own time the Black Eagles class did not accept the crestless, commoners being even more unheard of.” The Margrave spoke, eyes boring into her with disapproval.  
  
If she were younger, if she were anyone else, this would have thrown her off her rhythm. She might have even tried to lie. Sylvain tensed next to her, gearing up to say something. But Dorothea played these games better than anyone, and the Margrave showed her his hand. He clearly knew exactly how she ended up at Garreg Mach. His misstep was expecting her to be embarrassed.  
  
“Oh commoners are still absolutely unheard of, with rare exceptions made. I had connections with a noble family who made hefty donations to the academy, they wrote a letter on my behalf. Their son was a little in love with me, unrequited, and his parents wanted me out of the way so he would marry his betrothed. They happily paid my tuition.” Dorothea allowed herself a sip of wine in victory, eyeing the tiny look between Sylvain’s parents at her casual tone. Ah, so she knew too.  
  
Well if there were no secrets at the table, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. She wouldn’t gain their approval hiding who she was.  
  
Sylvain grinned, “And the rest, as you say, is history.”  
  
Dinner was served, bland Faerghus fare with some manner of game covered in cheese.  
  
Dorothea tried to steer the conversation towards something not about her, asking light questions about the territory or the Margravine’s recent trip to Fhirdiad. Sylvain’s mother provided brief, clipped answers but didn’t seem bored or displeased with her. The Margrave resumed his stony silence. Probably for the best.  
  
They chatted about Opera, about Dorothea’s work with orphans, the Margravine shared her own emphasis for public schools in Gautier as her major regional project. It was tense, but not unpleasant. Sylvain was unusually quiet, Dorothea used to his more natural chatty self, but his parents made him defensive.  
  
As dessert was cleaned up the Margravine smiled briefly, not quite reaching her eyes, “Well you are a young woman with an interesting life, now aren’t you? I look forward to hearing more stories from you.”  
  
Dorothea returned the smile, right down to the cold eyes, “I truly would have preferred a boring one, but I’m glad interesting will serve both of us well.”  
  
Sylvain’s jaw gaped open in disbelief. Dorothea felt much the same, had this gone okay? Maybe even well?   
  
“Close your mouth Sylvain, if you’re trying to court this woman at least attempt to be charming.” His mother said sharply, rising to leave. 

  
The Margrave stood after her, turning towards Sylvain with something sour in his face, “Sylvain I will take any further _dalliances_ as a clear sign you do not take your relationship with this woman seriously and leading towards marriage. Kindly remember your place.”  
  


And with an insult and a threat, the Gautiers exited the dining room.  
  
Sylvain began to laugh hysterically, his full body shaking, leaning back in the formal chair to give himself space.  
  
“I’m sorry” Dorothea started, feeling a little guilty. She shouldn’t have tempted him. Of course they would know. 

He looked over to her as if she was crazy, “For what?” 

“You didn’t want to, in the bath earlier. I pushed.”  
  
Sylvain laughed harder, “Oh I absolutely did want to- I just can’t believe. He says three things the whole meal and one of them was _Sylvain stop fucking your guest._ I mean that’s hilarious. They couldn’t even think of something to criticize about you, so they went to me.”  
  
Dorothea found his laughter contagious, joining in with just how absurd the whole encounter was. At least they could laugh about it.  
  
Sylvain grabbed her hands, “Dorothea I know I tell you you’re perfect all the time but you’re perfect. They don’t even know what to do with you. I think my mother might even halfway not hate you, and she hates everyone who doesn’t outrank her.” 

Somehow, it had gone well. 

* * *

The town of Gautier was surprisingly charming. The region was famous for its cows and goats, so much of the surrounding area was farmland rather than developed. But Gauiter had one major area, built alongside the mountains, blending into its surroundings as if it was a hidden city. Which given the area’s history of warfare, may have been practical rather than aesthetic. But the thatched roofs and gingerbread carvings were whimsical. 

Sylvain brought her to visit on market day, the street busy with people and animals, every inch packed with carts and vendors selling just about anything imaginable.  
  
Sylvain held onto her tightly, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Can’t have you getting lost” he crooned into her ear, placing a wet kiss on her cheek.  
  
For as backwater as Sylvain complained Gauiter was, the market had a truly impressive array of crafts. They stopped to stare at a jewerly maker’s wares, rings with gemstones and necklaces made of finely detailed metals mixed in with ornate daggers.

He anticipated her joke, “Daggers are not considered jewerly in Faerghus Dorothea”  
She laughed, “I wasn’t going to say that.”  
  
He picked her up, kissing her again, “Yes you were. It’s fine. I’ll tell you an amazing story about someone who _did_ think daggers were jewerly.” 

Later, they perched on a stone fence overlooking a small stage. They’d bought some hand pies at a stand in town, bland but homey and warm. It was sunny outside, warm with the hint of summer on the air. A pretty decent poet was telling an epic tale of knights to a gaggle of children.  
  
“I have a birthday present for you,” Dorothea remembered out loud.  
  
“You didn’t need to get me anything.” Sylvain insisted.  
  
“No, well I know, but I got something I think you’ll really like. Ashe helped me pick it out when he visited.” 

Sylvain leaned in, “Well spoil it for me, I hate surprises.”  
  
Dorothea smiled, pointing at the pie, “Seasoning. I bought you seasoning,”  
  
Sylvain threw his head back and laughed, “If you stay here you’ll revolutionize cuisine for a hundred years by insisting food taste of something.”  
  
Dorothea patted his thigh, “I think that’s a noble goal, honestly. But also, I know your mother has created schools for kids which is great but they’re not teaching skills so much as just making sure every kid knows the history of Faerghus. They should be helping kids who don’t have a family business to join, or maybe aren’t suited to it, they should connect them with apprenticeships. It’s simple, I’ve been working on it with some of my kids in Enbarr and after the war everyone is in need of good hands. A lot of people who would have just been leaving their apprenticeships ended up fighting so… A lot of kids need a path, a lot of people need moldable hands.” Dorothea pointed to side street, a more industrial part of Gautier with blacksmiths and other crafts people.  
  
Dorothea couldn’t quite read Sylvain’s face. His eyes were wide open, intensely on her but far away. He lunged for her, arms wrapped around her, lunch forgotten, not caring who stared. He kissed her so firmly she had half a mind to make sure the top of her dress was still fastened.  
  
“What was that for?” Dorothea asked quietly when he thought better of how public they were and pulled himself off of her.  
  
He actually blushed. “You’re thinking about Gautier and it… I don’t know. It just made me happy. I needed to kiss you. I’m not really sure why.”  
  
Dorothea blushed too, thinking back over her day in town. She’d actually started a mental list of projects, starting with the children and apprenticeships but the stage in town could easily have better seating and food vendors could be moved to this area and performers could have more attention that way.  
  
She could be busy here. She could have purpose.  
  
And the idea didn’t feel terrible. 

* * *

The day had started so nicely. Sylvain had to train with knights, and Dorothea found herself a nice spot in the gardens outside to write. Gautier was so idyllic and pretty she couldn’t help but feel inspiration for fairy tales.  
  
She’d been there over a week, Sylvain taking her to every corner of the land they could reach within a day’s ride. She’d discovered she liked cows no better than horses, and goats were absolutely terrible monsters.  
  
There were dense forests and winding mountain paths that took you to heights where you could see all the way to the water. They’d made love behind a grove of trees, the house explicitly off limits for such activities.  
  
She’d met with a poet’s group who the Gautiers patronized. They confirmed for her that cold weather really did foster creativity- there was little to do in the winter but write.  
  
They had volunteered at the local orphanage together, with Sylvain promising needed supplies before the moon’s end. 

  
Sylvain had promised her Gautier truly wasn’t all bad, and she was starting to see what he meant.  
  
His parents dined with them on the nights they came back to the manor for dinner, tense quiet affairs with Dorothea prattling on about nonsense to keep the Margravine amused and refusing to be cowed by any harsh insinuations about her past.  
  
They hadn’t kicked her out yet, so she’d consider it a success.  
  
More than anything she felt the need to protect Sylvain. He’d hate her thinking that way, but she could brighten his mood, help him see things with new eyes. His parents didn’t pull punches even with her around, nearly anything Sylvain said or did was critiqued. But he handled it better with her around.  
  
She was starting to believe she could do this. She really could be happy here.   
  


A skittish maid interrupted her thoughts, “I’m so sorry Miss Arnault, but the Margrave has requested to see you immediately. I’m to take you to his study.” The maid bounced from foot to foot, as if standing still would somehow mean failure of her duty.  
  
This shocked her. Sylvain’s father had said about ten things to her since she arrived, and seemed content to ignore her entirely. He wanted to _see_ her.  
  
“Oh, sure, not a bother. Is Sylvain meeting me?” Dorothea bottled up her ink and closed her notebook, placing both into a small handbag. She brushed off her dress, wishing she had time to really prep before meeting with him.  
  
The maid blanched, “I don’t know Miss. I’m sorry.”  
  
“No it’s fine, don’t worry about it. Help me find the study? I’m still getting lost here.”  
  
The maid knocked on the door of the study, a huge carved thing that was so thick she was worried for the poor girl’s fist.  
  
“Margrave, I have Miss Arnault to see you” 

  
They stood in silence so long Dorothea was sure they had missed him, perhaps he had left for lunch. But after a full minute a booming voice told her to enter.  
  
The maid opened the door and gestured for Dorothea to go inside. Steeling herself she waltzed in, head held high.  
  
The room was well appointed, but darker than she’d expect for a place intended for meetings. She’d been in Ferdinand’s office and was used to the chaos of governing, but this one was immaculate. All documents were in unlabeled folders, neatly stacked in identical piles as if daring someone to try to spy on information.  
  
“Good day Lord Gautier. You wanted to see me?” Dorothea saw there were seats in front of his desk, but chose to stand before she had leave to move. He was intimidating, and any break in procedure was sure to annoy him.   
  
“Yes. Sit, Miss Arnault.” 

Okay, sitting then. Even seated he loomed over her. 

“Will Sylvain be joining us?” She asked with the last lingering bits of hope that this meeting would be of no concern.  
  
“No. I wished to talk to you alone.” 

Dorothea pressed her lips together. He knew about Garreg Mach. He knew she was a commoner, an orphan. He knew she and Sylvain had slept together _under his roof_. There was nothing he could do to surprise her. He’d played his cards already.  
  
“You were a street child, correct?”  
  
“Yes. My mother died when I was very young, then I was alone.”  
  
“And your goal, since then, was to marry into the nobility?”  
  
Dorothea breathed out, ah, golddigger conversation. She’d had it before.  
  
“I wished for security in a marriage, yes. Love of course, that became more important to me as I saw more of the world. Nobility seemed a way to gain stability, but it was more about being secure than status. Safety is a priority when you grow up with nothing.” 

  
The Margrave’s eyes narrowed. She had realized days ago he didn’t know what to do with her. She was endlessly agreeable to him, allowing him to push her around enough that he was satisfied he had the upper hand, but she would not let him make her feel lesser. He could do nothing to her that had not already been done when she was younger and much softer.  
  
“You understand that nobility has many rules, especially here in Faerghus?”  
  
Another conversation she was ready for.  
  
“Yes Margrave. I am more used to Enbarr society, but you’ll find I’m a quick study.” She’d just need to keep agreeing. It was simple. She would not break under his questioning.  
  
“Gautier in particular has many traditions that must be upheld, if you were to join this family.”  
  
Her stomach flipped, was that approval? Was he going to allow it? He'd been holding it over Sylvain's head for days. 

Dorothea nodded, “Yes I understand. I have always had to adapt to my surroundings, going from the alleys of Enbarr to Mittlefrank was more of a culture shock than you could imagine.” 

His eyebrows raised, still shocked that she’d so easily mention she had been poor. As if that was shameful. 

“My son claims he’s explained the terms for his succession to you?”  
  
“We would have to provide the family with a crested heir for you to step aside and pass the title to Sylvain.”  
  
“I see, he did not lie to me then. Some say that crests can skip a generation.” Dorothea’s pulse quickened, “It is the position of Gautier that hoping without a guarantee is how crests get lost.” His look was so smug, like a cat with a cornered mouse. 

  
Dorothea nodded blankly, trying to keep her heart from beating faster. Why on earth would he say that? He couldn’t possibly…

  
“We are to have children until one has a crest of Gautier," she specified, "I understand, I agreed to that before I came here, Margrave. My courtship with your son would already have ended if I did not intimately understand the terms and agree to them back in Enbarr.”  
  
He turned back to a dossier on his desk, flipping pages.  
  
“I do not like your type, desperate to improve your station. I do not think you are an appropriate match for my son, you have neither the breeding or education to truly belong here. However, I can see that you are politically well connected and you are fine at pretending to be what you are not. My son is more productive with you in his life, and has, after a decade of philandering agreed to do his duty as the heir to this house. You are his condition, and I can be fair and compromise.”

  
Dorothea felt ten inches tall. His condition? How insulting. 

  
But he was approving. Approval. Marriage. If she wanted it. Oh goddess, did she even want it?  
  
A rapid knock sounded at the door, “Father? I need to speak with you urgently.”  
  
The Margrave maintained his intense focus on Dorothea and ignored the door. The knocking continued. Dorothea went to rise, but felt the Margrave’s steely gaze land back on her, freezing her in place. 

The door opened anyway.  
  
“Apologies, but I truly cannot leave my guest alone in these conditions. You understand?”  
  
The Margrave’s look could melt iron.  
  
“I will not tolerate this disrespect Sylvain.”  
  
“You will. She is my guest, it is protocol that she not be alone with any opposite sex member of the household who outranks me. Which is definitely you Father. Unless you are stepping aside and want Dorothea to tell me the good news of my premature succession?”  
  
Sylvain stood behind her chair, hands resting on her shoulders protectively. She was proud of him, this was the boldest she had seen him all week.  
  
The Margrave made a small noise of annoyance and turned back to his dossier.  
  
“I had one other condition I would note before my tepid approval that I intended to discuss with Miss Arnault in private but now given you have inserted yourself into this meeting, you will now be privy to this conversation as well.”  
  
Dorothea tensed, Sylvain’s hands squeezed reassuringly on her shoulders. She’d been able to predict the Margrave’s attacks on her at all turns, but she felt in the dark. Another condition? She’d agreed to so much already, what else could he want?  
  
“Miss Arnault, if you were to have a child with a crest that was _not_ the crest of Gautier, that child would be passed over in succession. We’ve not had to put the law on the books before now, but I want your agreement right now that you will not fight such a thing taking place.”  
  
Dorothea’s ears rang, how could he possibly know? She wasn’t in her body anymore. She was going to be sick. How did he know? Nobody knew- just her mother and her. She’d burned the letter to Sylvain rather than sending it.  
  
It didn’t matter. He knew, or thought he did, and she’d have to treat him exactly the same as she’d always done. He knew, so she shouldn’t be ashamed. His condition was easy. Simple. He was talking about futures that wouldn’t happen.

“I agree. Is there anything else Margrave?”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sylvain’s voice broke though the tension, angry, hurt.  
  
“Miss Arnault’s heritage poses an issue, we’ve agreed to a compromise. You should be glad, Sylvain, this is me approving your marriage.” The Margrave spoke matter of factly, as if he was not saying Dorothea’s largest secret as part of a transaction.  
  
“What of her heritage?” Sylvain asked again, darkly.  
  
Dorothea felt bile lifting in her throat, “Sylvain I can explain,” she lifted her hands to rest on his, where they were squeezing half moons into her shoulders.  
  
He wouldn’t look at her, staring dead ahead at his father, a challenge.  
  
“Father, what is the issue?”  
  
The Margrave chuckled darkly, “Well this is interesting. You’re dismissed, both of you.” 

Dorothea tried to rise but Sylvain’s hands refused to budge.  
  
She turned her head trying to whisper reassuringly, “We should go” but she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. Sylvain looked like he did on a battlefield, his face in shocked stoicism.  
  
“Sylvain whatever anger you are feeling right now is not my doing. Perhaps you should ask Miss Arnault what my issue is, she certainly understood in my insinuations. Now leave, I have more important things to worry about than a child’s fight.” 

“Father you have no right to-” Sylvain’s anger was cut off by the Margrave’s cold quiet voice.  
  
“I have every right as the head of this family. Sylvain I have every right and will maintain every right until I deem you worthy of any responsibility beyond playing with knights. I will protect you and your interests”  
  
Sylvain’s bitter laugh stopped his father, “Protect? That’s rich. I’d like to see you protect anything but a worthless strip of land that’s more important to you than the hundreds of lives that are lost to maintain it. You act as if you have all the power but you forget, you need me too. I can be patient, I have a great many years left- you’ll die eventually. But if I left? If I refused to have children? If I defected to Sreng or Brigid or Morfis you’d have nothing. Everything you value would be gone.” Sylvain let go of Dorothea, placing both hands on the desk, looming above his father.  
  
“Do not think I am so blind to your anxieties father. You arrested the old Viscount of Kleinman, and you handpicked his replacement, sure. But your generation, your closest allies, are all dropping like flies. You have the title, you have some remaining influence and goodwill from leading the Kingdom Rebellion, sure. But I have the ear of the king, of the Duke of Fraldarius, of the former Alliance and Empire nobility. I can be your pawn if there’s something in it for me, but never forget that without me everything you have worked for disappears overnight.”  
  
The Margrave was roiling with anger, but said nothing in response.  
  
Sylvain turned and mocked a polite bow, he ushered Dorothea out and slammed the door behind him.  
  
In the hallway he slid down to the floor, putting his head in his hands. A long moment passed, his shoulders shaking and Dorothea standing above him, protectively. As if her presence would keep anyone in the hall away.  
  
“I can’t believe I did that.” his hushed voice fought between laughter and tears.  
  
Dorothea stroked his hair lovingly, enjoying the softness without demanding attention. Letting him process his shock. Processing her own.  
  
He had stood up to his father. Not just stood up the man, outright threatened him.  
  
He peeked up between his hands, “Dorothea we… I…” his pupils were blown wide, every muscle tense.  
  
Dorothea understood, they needed to talk. She pulled him to standing, his legs unfolding just in time to hold his own weight.  
  
Her own thoughts raced, flitting between relieved and terrified. So proud of him for standing up for himself. Confused, hurt by his father’s invasion of her privacy. How on earth could he know? 

Hand in hand, Sylvain marched them down another hallway, this one slightly better decorated and lit but totally unfamiliar. They looped up a spiral staircase at a relentless pace that did not consider the length of Dorothea’s dress or the height of her shoes.  
  
Sylvain unlocked the door at the top, a huge bedroom with windows overlooking the manor all the way to town.  
  
She saw the lance of ruin mounted above the fireplace and a neatly set up strategy game on the table.   
  
Oh, Sylvain’s bedroom. It was one of the homiest rooms she’d seen in Gautier, packed tightly with books and bottles of alcohol, neatly piled stacks of letters. Still tidy, but lived in. Personal. She hadn’t actually been inside this space yet, strictly forbidden by protocol.  
  
But, she guessed, protocol was fully out the window at this point.  
  
Sylvain dropped her hand and sunk back to the floor, laying flat on his back. “Oh fucking saints I’m really in for it now,”  
  
“Sylvain that was amazing.” Dorothea finally found her voice.  
  
“I’m a dead man. That was suicidal.”  
  
“I don’t really think it was, he didn’t have a response to you. You were absolutely right you know. He’s obsessed with continuing the line of Gauiter crests, he’s getting on in years he’s not going to have another child. He needs you.”  
  
“I need him. Sreng hinges on me being Margrave.”  
  
Dorothea sat on the floor next to him, skirt fanning around around her. Dignity be damned.  
  
“Is that really true? If the path was cut off, what would you do?”  
  
Sylvain puffed out a breath between his lips, thinking.  
  
“Get Dimitri involved, tell him that Sreng might negotiate. He doesn’t want another war- he’d order it done. Get Marianne’s father to host a summit, Edmund trades with Sreng over sea route. I’ve thought about it, you know. The entire time I was riding back from Enbarr I was trying to convince myself to turn around and come up with something that could work if I just abandoned my title out of nowhere.”  
  
“But you didn’t” Dorothea said calmly, no judgement in her tone.  
  
“I hate this about myself but I love Gauiter. The people here deserve stability. A peaceful transition of power will be much easier on everyone here than a coup or out muscling my father. No matter what happens, I’m always going to return here.” He spreads his arms out, patting the floor.  
  
Her poor boy, his priorities have always been a mess. This one actually made sense.

  
“You shouldn’t hate that. It’s pretty admirable. The state of old Adrestia shows what happens when there’s no one left to rule who knows the land. I don’t love watching you compromise like this, but I think I get it. I just don’t want you to be miserable on everyone else’s account Sylvain. You’ve always been far too willing to run in front of a sword so no one else has to.” 

Sylvain made a noise in the back of his throat that Dorothea took as affirmation. He crossed his arms above his head, resting his head in the tangle, getting comfortable on the floor.  
  
“So… You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to but uh… the first part. The condition.” His energy is still restless, but Dorothea could tell he was trying to calm his nerves.  
  
She knew she had to tell him. In a way she always planned to, just maybe not like this.  
  
They lapsed into silence on the floor, Dorothea sliding next to him on her back, and taking deep breaths to work up her nerve. The ceiling was pitched with sturdy wooden beams, she wondered how hard that was to clean.  
  
He already knew in a way, the ending wouldn't change, what’s the worst that would happen?  
  
“I owe you an explanation.” 

“You don’t owe me anything, Thea.”  
  
“I don’t but I’d like to give you one. My father was a noble in Enbarr, my mother’s employer.”  
  
Sylvain took a breath, “That makes sense I guess. Bastard.” 

“You have no idea.” Dorothea bit her lip, thinking of how to present the information. It was so weird, the conclusion was out there already. In all the times she’d imagined this conversation, numb calmness wasn’t ever the emotion she thought would feature most heavily, “He had a crest and I didn’t and that was the end of his interest in me. My mother was fired and then she died and I was a street kid.”  
  
Sylvain hummed, “You could have told me, you know. I didn’t realize crests ruined your life too. I would have understood.”  
  
Dorothea held in her laugh, “I mean you wouldn’t have. You have so many issues with having a crest of your own, you didn’t need to handle my baggage too.”  
  
Sylvain snorted, “I can handle your baggage Dorothea. I saw what not having a crest did to my brother’s life. I never blamed him, you know?”  
  
“You should have. What he did to you was horrible.”  
  
“Sure, absolutely. Sadistic. But I always couldn’t help but think that it was really my parent’s fault, and that he had it so much worse than me. He just needed me to feel a little bit of his pain.” 

  
“He shouldn’t have felt that pain at all” Dorothea insisted, turning onto her side to look at him.  
  
“Yeah but he did. It is what it is, can’t change the past. Just the future.” Sylvain still faced the ceiling, smiling a little. It made Dorothea’s heart catch.  
  
“So we might have little crests of…?” he trailed off  
  
“Cichol” 

  
“Cichol? Really? Huh. Weird. Never thought much about Cichol.” 

Dorothea laughed, “Yeah me neither. It’s not going to happen anyway. I didn’t even know it was possible at all until I got to school.”  
  
“Count on my father to torture you and change the law over a one in a million chance. It’s like fifty/fifty that they’d get a Gautier crest but no, gotta focus on what could go wrong” He said dryly. 

“I don’t get why you’re so concerned you’ll end up like your father, you’re nothing like him.” Dorothea blurted out.  
  
This got his attention, he turned his head slowly to look at her, “I am though.”  
  
Dorothea shook her head, “You’re not. I don’t even think you look alike these days, I can’t see one bit of him in you. The conversation I had with him confirmed that. You are so much better than he’ll ever be. You’re trying to see what could go right.” 

Sylvain shrugged, mulling over her comment.  
  
It was true though, sure there was a resemblance but Sylvain’s face was always seconds from smiling or making a joke. His father had all the same features, but his face moved like a stone golem, as if anything at all took effort and pleasantness was simply not a possible movement.   
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Dorothea offered  
  
“There’s nothing to tell, but I’m glad you did. I think… I get it. I know I don’t, I can’t. But it’s like you said, I can choose how I treat people. Kids. If I want to live in a world where crests don’t determine a person’s worth, I have to start in my own household. There’s more to life than being an heir.”  
  


Dorothea’s only response to that was to lean over and kiss him.  
  
“I love you” She whispered.  
  
“Marry me?” He asked quietly.  
  
Dorothea felt her answer catch in her throat, yes. Of course yes. This stupid, brilliant, moody, funny man who hated himself so much but loved his people. Who used sex as a weapon of self destruction, but treated her so reverently. Of course she’d marry him.  
  
She shook her head, “You’re not kneeling”  
  
“Oh I’ll show you kneeling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue next


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

In the end she says yes on top of a hill. They’re miles from the house, with a bag full of simple foods. The day is beautiful, the kind of weather that’s so unassuming you forget the outdoors could be cruel.    
  
They spent the last two weeks of her visit talking about marriage. Responsibilities, timing, who they’d invite to a wedding. How often, realistically, they could visit Enbarr. If it was really practical to build a small concert hall in town, and wouldn’t that make a fine wedding present?    
  
They want a big fat party, of course. It would be more convenient in Fhirdiad, but the local artisans and inns get an event like this once in a generation. They’ll throw a public feast in town too, Dorothea insists and Sylvain agrees.    
  
She hasn’t said yes, but they’re in Faerghus so the fact that they’ve discussed it means it’s real and everyone hits the ground running because truly there’s no sense in delaying.    
  
She hasn’t said yes but the Margrave is giving her a wide berth, staying stony silent at meals. The Margravine is making lists and Sylvain notes he’s never seen her happy before.    
  
His mother makes one weird comment about how Dorothea is fashionable and that’s a fine epithet for a lady before Dorothea realizes she’ll actually have to stay involved if she wants her mark on anything. 

Sylvain is called into one very tense discussion in his father’s office with a visiting church official. He refuses to talk about for days, but they fuck very loudly in his bed and he confesses that his father paid the local bishop to revirginize him, legally.    
  
Dorothea pointedly looks at where he is literally inside of her, and he grins down at her, 

  
“I spent my whole life building this reputation and I was  _ really _ looking forward to someone challenging my succession because I fucked too much to be a good leader. Imagine Dimitri ruling over that, I spent a whole war putting him on the throne for the opportunity to watch him stutter through a challenge on my honor. My father can’t pay his way out of that.”    
  
Dorothea laughs and pulls his hair, “Less talking Sylvain, more of what you were doing before,” 

They’re engaged, but they’re not. Sylvain’s still answering to his father, but with a renewed sense of rebellion. It’s easier to say yes when he knows no is a true option. He tells her about the plan with Sreng, about the upcoming staged fight. They’re at peace of a sort.   
  
Two days before she’s scheduled to start traveling south Sylvain suggests they have a picnic.    
  
Dorothea is skeptical of his motivations, but they’ve been taking any excuse to leave the house and a picnic seems nice. He’s brought a blanket and it’s really beautiful outside. Flowers are blooming around them, the breeze is gentle and kind.    
  
“I hate this spot you know?” Sylvain says, after they’ve eaten.    
  
Dorothea cocks her head, “You do?” 

“Well, I almost died here. My brother shoved me into that well,” he points to the small stone well right off the path, “and it’s always been a bad memory ever since. We used to play up here, Ingrid and Felix and Dimitri and Glenn and I, and it’s so pretty and I hate this spot.”    
  
Dorothea nodded, “I have a sense you feel that way about a lot of Gauiter.”    
  
“Yeah you get it, but, uh, look it’s pretty easy to take a tour of Gautier and point out whatever terrible thing happened to me in each place. But now I think about my father’s study and I remember yelling at him, and I think about the guest room that Felix sulked in as a kid but now I think about you in the bathtub there and… The point is, you make this place happier for me,”    
  
It was two sided and sad and perfect. It was Sylvain.    
  
“I love you, you know. You make everything happier for me,” Dorothea answered.    
  
Sylvain dug around in the picnic bag, “Well can I try to make you even happier?”    
  
Dorothea tossed her hair over her shoulder, half knowing what Sylvain was doing but wanting the moment to be light, perfect, “I usually like how these things end, go ahead, wow me.” 

Sylvain pulled out a small white gold ring with a garnet stone. It was stunning, red, her favorite color. His family color. Dorothea couldn’t help but gasp.   
  
“I uh… wait.” He shifted on the blanket moving some food out of the way. He scooted over in front of where dorothea was sitting and adjusted his stance until he was kneeling.    
  
Dorothea bit her lip, trying to let him say his peace. She stood slowly, her foot long asleep from their picnic. She didn’t care.    
  
“Wait where are you going?” He whispered.    
  
“Right here, if you’re kneeling I’m standing. You’re doing great.”    
  
He winked at her, “Sounds good. So, Dorothea you are kind, you are talented, you are sexy, you are so creative and brave and clever and you make me want to be better. I can’t always promise to be the best person, but I can promise to love you. Let’s grow old together okay?” 

  
Sincerity was never Sylvain’s strong suit, but his offer caught in her chest.   
  
“You promise to love me when I’m old?”    
  
“When you’re old, when you’re young, when you’re mad at me, when you’re happy with me. I promise to love you until my dying breath.”    
  


His face was lit by the sun, bright with little freckles and two weeks of stubble and his brown eyes looking up into hers. He took her to a place he almost died and made jokes and yet the moment was somehow perfect.    
  
“Okay. Okay. Yes.” Dorothea tackled him into the ground, kissing him with an intensity she rarely felt. He let his forehead rest on hers, looking into her eyes, smiling more genuinely and beautifully than she had seen him ever before.    
  


“Yes what?” he asked   
  
“Yes I’ll marry you” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for bearing with me on this! I love the two of them and I just want them to be happy. You know, after a bunch of angst.

**Author's Note:**

> Next time: Sylvain and the Gautiers. Just as much fun as it sounds. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
